


For The Love of Someone

by eating_custardinbed



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Az is a kid, Crowley is his dad, F/M, Fluff and Angst, IT WORKS OKAY - Freeform, Kid Fic, M/M, Memory Wipe, OCs feature heavily, Other, SO MUCH FLUFF, Temporary Character Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed
Summary: After a particularly nasty discorporation and some badly-chosen words from the Almighty, Aziraphale has his memory wiped and is put into a vessel of a two-year-old boy. The corporation will keep aging until it reaches the age of the old body. His memories will be restored at sixteen, but until then, he will be at the world's mercy.At least, he would have been if he hadn't been dropped into Crowley's flat.





	1. How It All Began

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, I have no idea what this is. Just had the idea and had to write it. Don't expect a regular updating schedule or anything. Please enjoy!

It all started about a month after the Apocalypse. 

To be honest, it had been a good month. No Heaven, no Hell. No temptings to do, no blessings to perform. For the first time in their existence, Aziraphale and Crowley could be just themselves without worrying about the repercussions from their respective head offices. A certain amount of wine and an extremely expensive meal at the Ritz had lead to an admission of six thousand years of love between the angel and the demon. When Aziraphale shyly revealed this to Anathema during their weekly phone call a few days later, she had to gently explain to them that the pair were a quintessentially old married couple*. 

*When Aziraphale pointed out, somewhat bewilderedly, that he and Crowley were not married, Anathema told him that that wasn’t the point.

Neither of them had ever been in a relationship before, so it had been a bit of a rocky start. They had been awkward around each other, always trying to please. It was exhausting for both of them. Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to see his fluffy, emotional side*, and Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to see his stuttering, anxious side. All of a sudden, they were spending less and less time together, and it was utterly hateful. Eventually, they realised that the reason they fell in love with each other in the first place was for what they considered to be their own less than perfect qualities. 

*The one that cried over Toy Story 3

For an angel and a demon, they can be very dense. 

On the day our history begins, they had been together for a month. It was coming up towards the end of September, and so the crowds of Soho had thinned out a little, the tourists having departed back to where they came from to return to work or school or whatever it is they do. The days were getting shorter, the air was getting colder and yet Crowley had never been happier. Given his naturally cold-blooded nature, something he’d kept from his snake form, he normally loathed the winter, tending to try and sleep through the whole season. Now, though, he had Aziraphale. If he got cold, he could curl up next to his angel to keep warm. Sometimes Aziraphale would even let him go into his snake form and slither up onto his neck, nestling comfortably just below his cheek. 

That’s what he was doing on that day. Aziraphale was, as ever, lost in a book. Crowley had lost track of which one it was; just yesterday, Aziraphale had been reading  _ The Da Vinci Code _ , but today the book looked to be something completely different. Crowley was half-casting a lazy eye across the page from where he was curled around Aziraphale’s shoulders in his snake form. 

Hissing softly, he bumped his head against Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel didn’t look up as he turned the page. Crowley narrowed his eyes and flicked his tongue across the other’s cheek. No response. The snake hissed again, louder this time, and Aziraphale jumped, turning his eye towards his companion. 

“Ever so sorry, my dear,” he said, reaching for his bookmark and closing his book. “I quite forgot you were there.” 

Crowley hissed again, slithering off of Aziraphale’s shoulders and going up to the window. He tapped the glass with his tail, giving another quiet hiss.

“You want to go out?” the angel asked. The little snake head nodded as the tongue flicked out again. “My dear boy, we went out just last night. Are you sure you don’t want to stay in? I heard it’s going to be a cold one.” 

The snake narrowed its eyes, jabbing the window again. Aziraphale sighed and held up his hands. 

“Very well,” he said. “But you will have to change back. I’m not explaining to the bus driver why I have a snake draped around my neck again.” 

The snake made a noise that sounded a little like a huff, and then the snake was no longer a snake: it was a man. More precisely, it was Crowley, perched on the windowsill in the same position he had been in the Bastille in 1793, looking suitably moody. 

“You’re no fun, you are,” he said, voice sullen. 

“I nearly got  _ arrested,  _ Crowley,” Aziraphale shot back, conscientiously straightening his bow tie, which snake-Crowley had knocked askew. The Crowley who was sitting by the window laughed. 

“That was funny.” 

Aziraphale glowered, but it was clear he wasn’t serious. 

“Where do you want to go, then?” he asked. Crowley sprung lithely from the windowsill, sauntering over to the sofa where his angel was sat. 

“There’s a new Italian place just opened around the corner,” he said. “Heard they do beautiful cannoli.” 

Aziraphale made a small, pleased noise. 

“I do love cannoli,” he replied. 

“I know you do, angel.” 

“Is there a table open?” 

Crowley grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. 

“There always is, isn’t there?” he said. Aziraphale smiled at him, the small, truly radiant smile he reserved only for Crowley. 

“Alright,” the angel said, getting up before going over and picking up his coat from the stand. “When are we leaving?” 

“Now!” Crowley exclaimed, rushing out of the bookshop before Aziraphale had a chance to grab his hand. 

The angel, shaking his head and laughing slightly, took a few moments to make sure everything was in order in the shop, and that the door was locked behind him. He stepped out onto the busy street, craning his neck to try and find his demon. After a minute or so, he found him. He was standing by the micropub over the road, waving his hands wildly. Aziraphale laughed and, looking left and right, stepped out into the road. 

If he had stepped out just a second later, looked again, maybe things would have been different. Maybe, if the man hadn’t had so many drinks. Maybe, if the traffic had been just a little slower further up in London. Maybe it would have been different. 

For Crowley, who was watching this from the micropub, it happened all in slow motion. He saw as further up the road, the car, which was swerving violently, ran the red light. He watched as Aziraphale reached the halfway point in the road. He heard himself scream his angel’s name as the car, going faster and faster and faster, swerved towards the bookseller. He watched as Aziraphale turned his head to him, confused. 

He watched as the car ploughed right into his angel. 

Now, Crowley obviously knew that Aziraphale wasn’t really dead. Not dead at all, unless that car was made of Hellfire, just discorporated. That being said, watching your partner get discorporated in such a horrific way was  _ not  _ pleasant, and there were humans around. Best make a show. 

Instantly, the screams started up. Crowley joined them, screaming “He’s my boyfriend, he’s my boyfriend, please!” as he pushed his way through the crowds that were gathering around the angel’s fallen body. The car had stopped, its front bumper crumpled from the force of the impact. 

The demon dropped to his knees next to Aziraphale. The angel was just clinging onto consciousness, and he raised his pain-filled eyes to his demon. He didn’t have long left; the crimson blood soaking through his shirt and waistcoat attested to that. Crowley reached forward with a trembling hand, resting it on Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Hey, angel,” he said in the gentlest voice possible. 

“Crow-Crowley…” Aziraphale spluttered. He coughed, and blood bubbled on his lips.

“Shh, shh, save your breath,” Crowley replied quickly, soothingly. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.” 

“I’ve called an ambulance,” someone said. Crowley didn’t respond as he stroked Aziraphale’s cheek comfortingly. It was the least he could do: discorporation wasn’t pleasant, he knew that from experience. 

The average arrival time for a London ambulance is eight minutes. Crowley knew that Aziraphale had less than two left. 

“I love you,” he said quietly. “Remember that.” 

Aziraphale nodded, and whispered something that was very slurred. 

“If you need to go, then go,” the demon murmured despairingly. “I’ll understand. I just don’t want you to be in pain.” 

Aziraphale nodded again, and took his last breath. His body went limp, and Crowley knew he was gone. 

It was stupid, but he found himself blinking away tears as someone who had just arrived in the crowd, an off-duty A&E registrar, apparently, pushed him out of the way and began to frantically perform CPR. Crowley couldn’t bear to watch. It wouldn’t work, anyway. Once a corporation was gone, it was gone. 

He glanced over to the car that had hit Aziraphale. The driver, who was clearly drunk off his tits, had stumbled out. He was staring at the crowd, swigging from a half-empty bottle of vodka. The demon could smell it from his position. All of a sudden, a rage, a righteous rage, filled him. This… idiot! What if he’d hit someone else, someone who could actually properly die!? Pulling himself up off the ground, and ignoring those who were trying to comfort him, he stalked towards the man. 

Grabbing the drunkard by the lapels, he shoved him up against the nearest wall, hissing angrily. The man had paled, and he lost his grip on the bottle. It smashed on the floor, soaking Crowley’s expensive shoes in alcohol. He didn’t care. 

“You killed my boyfriend,” he snarled. The man gave a laugh, a drunken laugh. 

“Serves y’right,” he slurred. “Y’fags, poufters. Should ram yuh all off th’ roads, freaks o’ nat’re.” 

Crowley shook him, taking special care to make sure his head bounced off the brick wall. 

“You thick-headed piece of homophobic _ shit, _ ” he growled. “You wait until this lot leave, I’ll-” 

But he never did get to deliver his threats, because someone pulled him away. They were pulling away the drunken driver as well, putting him in handcuffs… 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you, son?” the man who had pulled Crowley back said. 

“He  _ killed _ him,” Crowley whispered. All the conviction seemed to have left his voice. 

The man who had pulled him away turned out to be a police officer. The ambulance had arrived now, but even they knew it was too late. A white sheet was going up around the body. Police cars were swarming, sirens blaring. This wasn’t a hit and run anymore: this was a murder scene. 

“Is there anyone we can call?” the man said gently as he offered him a tissue. Crowley raised his hand to his eyes and realised he’d been crying. He wiped them away fiercely, refusing the tissue. “His parents, siblings?” 

“There’s no-one,” the demon replied, his voice hoarse. “It’s just me and him.” 

The police officer opened his mouth to say something, but then he seemed to reconsider and closed it again. He patted the demon on the shoulder, whilst vaguely wondering whether it had turned colder all of a sudden. 

“Why don’t we get you checked out?” he said. 

“The car hit him, not me,” Crowley snarled. Some of the anger was back. 

“Well, how about a nice cup of tea, then?” the officer replied. “Calm your nerves before we head back to the station.” 

“ _ We _ ?” Crowley repeated. “What d’you mean, we?” 

“Need you to make a statement, son,” the officer said. “You saw it happen, didn’t you?” 

Crowley nodded. He could see it all in his mind’s eye, replaying over and over and over again like a broken tape. He shook his head to try and get rid of it. 

“This is the best way to secure a conviction,” the policeman said. His tone was soft and gentle. “I promise we’ll get justice for him.” 

Crowley nodded dumbly, and followed the officer over to the open doors of the waiting ambulance. 

888888

When Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was sitting in a white room. 

Immediately, he knew where he was. 

If he was honest, he’d expected to be flung into Purgatory. A place that is neither Heaven nor Hell, neither Good nor Evil. Simply perfectly mediocre. The rumours are that Purgatory is either a Burger King or Milton Keynes*. 

*Technically speaking, these are both true. Purgatory is in fact the Burger King on Elder Gate in Milton Keynes. Original theories state that Purgatory is in fact a motorway service station, but since they are one of Crowley’s finer inventions this is, indeed, wrong. 

But no. It appeared to him that he was in Heaven, unless this was some cruel trick being played by Hell. Cautiously, he reached out a shimmering hand and brushed it against the wall. Sure enough, he felt the familiar pleasant tingle of holiness that he always associated with Heaven. 

Right. Not a trick, then. 

“Um, hello?” he called out, in the same tentative way he had done in Wessex in the sixth century. “Is there ,er…? Is there anyone there?” 

As if on cue, part of the wall in front of him broke away and opened inwards. It was Gabriel, still in his bespoke suit. He was grinning like a maniac. 

Aziraphale could feel himself getting nervous. 

“Gabriel,” he said nervously. “What an unexpected pleasure.” 

“Yeah, don’t suck up to me, sunshine,” Gabriel snapped. He was still smiling, though. “If you think we’re giving you another body after all the tricks you’ve pulled, think again. You’re not getting out this time.” 

The lower angel gulped. He tried to stand, but he found that he couldn’t. It was like his legs had been glued to the chair he was sitting on. 

“What have you done?” he exclaimed, panic leaking into his voice. Gabriel smiled sadistically. 

“Oh, just a simple miracle,” he said. “You’re not getting out. Not this time. You’re finally going to pay for what you did.” 

With that, he walked out, leaving Aziraphale alone. 

888888

Up in Her office, The Almighty was just hearing of Aziraphale’s discorporation. 

_ Is he here?  _ She asked the Metatron, who had told her the news. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the Metatron replied. “He’s downstairs, I think.” 

_ He needs to go back,  _ She said.  _ To Earth. To Crowley. Does he have a body?  _

“No, ma’am. The Archangels are refusing to give him one.” 

She sighed in Her physical plain, which was invisible to anyone but Her, putting Her head in Her hands. Why did the Archangels have to be like this? 

_ Tell them,  _ she said.  _ Tell them they must, that it is My orders.  _

The Metatron nodded and disappeared. 

Instantly, she knew she’d said the wrong thing. 

888888

At his desk, Gabriel sighed as the Metatron vanished. 

So, he was going to  _ have  _ to give Aziraphale a body. Wahoo! He sighed, going over the Metatron’s words in his mind. 

_ You are to give the Principality a body. It is The Almighty’s order.  _

_ Give the Principality a body.  _

_ A body.  _

_ A body… _

Gabriel gasped, pushing away from his desk. That was it. That was the solution. There it was, staring him right in the face!

He jumped up, running down the corridor towards Michael’s office. Not bothering to knock, he burst in, shooing away the cherubs that were standing at the foot of Michael’s desk. Michael stood up slowly. 

“This is… unusual, Gabriel,” said the archangel. 

“I need your help with something,” Gabriel panted out. 

“What?” 

“Well, you know how Aziraphale is here?” 

Michael nodded, lip curling. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Well, The Almighty says that we have to give him a body, but I had an idea,” Gabriel said. He was clearly revelling in his own genius. Michael narrowed their eyes. “She never specified that it had to be the  _ same  _ body.” 

“Are you suggesting what I’m thinking?” Michael asked. They were grinning now. 

“I could design a body,” Gabriel replied. “Starts off at, I don’t know, two years old. It will age at a normal human rate until it reaches the same age as his old corporation. Erase his memories of his previous life: he won’t know who he is.” 

“What about,” Michael said, eyes sparkling. “When he turns sixteen, all of his memories come flooding back? He’ll feel cheated, like his whole life has been a lie. You never know, he might bump himself off so we don’t have to do it.” 

A small smile grew on Gabriel’s face. He nodded, going over to Michael’s desk and pulling out some blueprint paper. 

“Shall we get to work?” 

888888

Aziraphale must have fallen to sleep, because the next thing he knew, he was being roughly shaken awake by Uriel, who looked thoroughly disgusted at having been given this job. 

“Get up, traitor,” she snarled, gesturing for him to get up. He did so hurriedly, unsure of what the consequences would be if he didn’t obey. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, you know,” she said as they walked out of the white room and began to make their way down a corridor. Aziraphale tried to be polite, but the smile quickly slid off of his face. “Having a rogue angel running around, consorting with a  _ demon _ , of all people… some of the cherubs are very impressionable, you know.” 

Aziraphale mumbled something that couldn’t quite be heard. 

Uriel stopped as they reached a door. It was made of ornate cherry wood, and she held it open for him, gesturing. 

“In you go,” she said. He nodded, trembling, and stepped through the door. 

It slammed shut behind him. 

Gabriel and Michael were waiting for him, each wearing equally fake smiles. Aziraphale looked around, turning slowly on his heels and examining every inch of the places before turning back to the archangels. 

“What is this place?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

“It’s for you,” Michael said simply. 

“We made you a body,” Gabriel said. His voice was sickeningly sweet, and it was throwing Aziraphale off-kilter. “Don’t you want to try it?” 

Michael pressed a button, and Aziraphale was helpless. He couldn’t stop himself being sucked into the body, couldn’t stop them probing his memories… 

It was lucky the walls were soundproofed, or the screaming would have caused quite a racket outside. 

888888

Crowley was exhausted.

There was no other word for it. Crowley should know: he’s been around for the development of every single language. He’d had a very trying day, and it had drained all of his energy. 

The police station had been… interesting. The officer who had stopped him killing the driver had made him sit on the edge of the ambulance for nearly an hour whilst the paramedics had fussed around him, checking blood pressure and heartbeat and the like. They’d forced a cup of hot, sweet tea into his hands, and that had set off the tears again: sweet tea was one of Aziraphale’s favourite drinks. One paramedic had stayed with him, putting an arm around his shoulder as he cried, whilst the other went over to the side and murmured away to the police officer. Crowley was sure he heard snatches of the words “suicide” and “at risk”. 

They all made him get into the ambulance fully when the ominously black coroner’s van arrived. 

He was home again, though. He’d made his statement, making it  _ very  _ clear that he had an inkling that the driver had been motivated not only by alcohol, but by his homophobia. The sergeant who had been interviewing him said he doubted this, but as Crowley was on his way out, he murmured in his ear that as the incident had happened in broad daylight, with up to fifty credible witnesses, the offender was facing life in jail. Then he had done that weird little upper-arm pat that people had been doing to him all day and let him get on his way. 

Despite the fact that he was exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. He was pacing up and down the cold stone floor, trying to think of a way to get Aziraphale back from Heaven*. The archangels weren’t going to give up without a fight.

*Crowley sincerely doubted that he had ended up anywhere but there. Plus, he’d checked the Burger King on Elder Gate in Milton Keynes and it was closed for maintenance. 

He had just devised a particularly horrible way of torturing Gabriel when a flash of lightning struck in the middle of his living room, throwing him backwards into the wall. 

He groaned, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to stop the ringing in his ears. He blinked, his vision coming back bit-by-bit. He picked himself up off the floor, absently rubbing the side of his head as he stumbled into the living room. 

When he got there, he just stared. And stared. And stared. 

“Huh,” he said. 

In the middle of his minimalist living room, there stood a small child. 

More precisely, it was a boy child. He looked to be about two, possibly three at a stretch. He was quite small for his age, no taller than two foot eight, and he had a head full of white-blond curls, which had been allowed to grow into an unruly state. He was wearing a long, flowing white robe that went down to his ankles. He didn’t scared as such, more bewildered than anything. 

The second Crowley saw his eyes, he knew who he was looking at. 

He made a few faces, all within a few seconds of each other. First confused, then shocked, then relieved, then angry and then back to shocked again. He crept forward almost cautiously, as if he was scared that this small child could do something extremely harmful to him. 

“A-Aziraphale?” he whispered as he got nearer. 

The little boy looked up at him. They locked eyes and the toddler said, in the sweetest and tiniest voice that Crowley had ever heard: 

“Papa?” 


	2. Some Questions Are Asked (and answered)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long and is so short!! Next chapter should be up soon (by end of next week anyway) xx

_... _ _ and the toddler said, in the sweetest and tiniest voice that Crowley had ever heard:  _

_ “Papa?”  _

Crowley was frozen. He suddenly found that he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, although it was an entirely unnecessary function for him, and his brain was running round circles. How? How could Aziraphale have been given a body like this? More pressingly, why had he been given a body like this? Why wouldn’t they just- 

Oh, he was  _ so  _ going to kill Gabriel when he saw him. 

It had to be him. Gabriel was the most devilish out of that whole angelic lot. That whole  _ holier-than-thou  _ attitude didn’t fool the demon. He’d heard the way he’d spoken to Aziraphale, like the Principality was dirt under his shoe. 

Speaking of Aziraphale, the kid was still gazing up at him. He had stuck his thumb in his mouth and seemed to be trembling a little. Crowley shook himself out of his shock. Aziraphale was in the body of a two-year-old, and clearly didn’t know who Crowley was: someone was going to have to look after him, and it was looking like that someone was going to be Crowley. 

“Hey, buddy,” he said, careful to keep his voice soft. Aziraphale looked up at him with shining eyes, and Crowley edged a little further forward towards him, crouching down. Behind his back, he snapped his fingers. 

In the blink of an eye, the flat was almost completely different. A whole new room had been added to the flat, inexplicably similar to what young Warlock’s bedroom had been like when they’d been looking after him. The throne and the table had been pushed up against the wall, and in their place was a huge, plush leather sofa. Toys and books and everything that could possibly be required for a two-year-old was sprawled on the floor, and the previously empty fridge was stocked full of food. The liquor was carefully locked away in a high cupboard in the kitchen. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. 

As an afterthought, Crowley snapped his fingers again. Phew. Now there wouldn’t be any awkward questions from landlords or neighbours about why a toddler was suddenly living in the building. 

“Have you stopped using your outdoor voice with the plants yet?” Aziraphale asked as he took his thumb out of his mouth. Crowley was a little shocked at how good his language was, despite the child-like context it had taken on. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, more than a little confused. “Yeah, I have.” 

Aziraphale’s face broke out in a beaming smile and he rushed forward, tackling Crowley in the type of crushing hug that only a young child can give. Crowley, barely stopping himself from toppling backwards, hugged him back. Well, at least he had ‘Zira back, even if it wasn’t strictly  _ his  _ ‘Zira. 

“Good,” the young angel said, grinning. “‘Cause you said that once you've had your time with your plants, we could eat!” 

Had he? Crowley internally shrugged, deciding to just go with it for now. 

“I did say that, didn’t I, angel?” he said. Aziraphale giggled a little.  _ Right _ , Crowley thought,  _ at least I can keep the nickname.  _

“What we having, Papa?” Aziraphale asked. 

“What do you want?” 

That made Aziraphale stop and think for a moment. Crowley hadn’t known that a two-year-old could look so serious. It was absurdly cute, and he couldn’t help but sneak his phone out and snap a picture. 

Damn. This kid was stealing his heart already. 

“Do we have any mac and cheese?” the toddler asked after a minute or so. Crowley stood from his squatted position and went over to the kitchen, checking the cupboards despite knowing damn well that they  _ did  _ have mac and cheese, because he’d miracled it into existence not five minutes ago. He turned to Aziraphale and nodded. The child squealed with delight. “Thank you, Papa!” he exclaimed before running into the living room and taking up a colouring book and some pencil crayons as if he’d been there the whole time. 

Crowley blinked. This wasn’t happening, surely? A hallucination, that’s what this must be. It can’t be real. It  _ can’t  _ be. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but when he opened them, he could still see Aziraphale’s little legs sticking up from the living room. There it was, plain as day. 

Well damn. 

Crowley turned back to the kitchen, pulling out a pan from a cupboard on his left. Grabbing the milk from the fridge, he turned again and checked that Aziraphale was distracted. He was, so the demon snapped his fingers and, a bit like in Harry Potter, the dinner began to make itself of its own accord. He shrugged. It wasn’t like he had a miracle quota anymore. 

“Whatcha colouring, Az’?” he called, trying to make it sound natural. 

“‘S a secret,” Aziraphale replied. 

Crowley shot the kid a strange look. 

“Secret?” 

“Yes. Secret.” 

_ It’s a drawing,  _ Crowley thought.  _ Why would it need to be a secret? _

Crowley had always been fond of kids. He’d always liked them, right from when he first met Cain and Abel, despite what they grew up to be. The reason he liked them so much was because they didn’t yet know nor understand the horrors of the world. They were innocent, as innocent as could be. In a way, they reminded him a little of Aziraphale at times. 

He watched, if a little dazedly, as the wooden spoon stirred the mac and cheese that was bubbling on the stove. To be honest, it did smell rather good, and if he didn’t want the kid to blab about the whole supernatural situation, well, it wouldn’t hurt to have some, would it? No, it couldn’t. Couldn’t hurt at all. 

He reached into the cupboard for a couple of bowls, only grabbing cutlery as an afterthought. He eyed the liquor cabinet, standing bold as ever in the corner, and sighed. 

“What do you want to drink?” he shouted to the boy. 

“Cocoa, please!” was the reply. 

Ah. Some of Aziraphale’s mannerisms seemed to have crossed the barrier, as it were. Crowley smiled softly to himself. 

“You can have cocoa later, buddy,” he said as he went into the living room. Aziraphale looked up from what he was doing and gave him huge puppy-dog eyes, the same type he used to give the demon when he wanted something from him before. He would never admit it, but Crowley very nearly budged. “With lots of marshmallows and cream and even a flake, I promise. Maybe have juice with dinner?” 

Seemingly placated, the toddler nodded happily and went back to what he had been doing. 

As he headed back to the kitchen, Crowley had a sudden thought? Would the way he raised Aziraphale affect him, change him, even? No, he assured himself. What fundamentally made Aziraphale Aziraphale was still there, it was just… locked away. Locked away, yeah. And Crowley just had to make sure he didn’t get killed until those memories unlocked themselves. 

Until Aziraphale knew who he was again. For real. 

The mac and cheese was ready. It poured itself into the bowls and, with one final glowering stare from Crowley, deposited themselves quietly into the sink. They’d heard about what he did to the plants. 

“Dinner!” he shouted through into the living room, carrying the two plates into the dining room. Aziraphale came running, waiting first for Crowley to seat himself at the throne before climbing up onto his own seat, which had a booster seat on it so the toddler could reach the high table. 

“Thank you, Papa,” he said as he reached for his fork. 

“So, tell me what you did today,” Crowley said, eyeing the tablecloth nervously. That was never going to survive the cheesy monstrosity of this sauce if it got on it. Aziraphale let out a high-pitched twinkly laugh. 

“You were there!” he replied, swallowing his mouthful. The demon tried to shrug it off. 

“Yeah, but I always like it when you tell me.” 

“Well…” the toddler said, furrowing his brow. “We just stayed in today. You said that it was a “chill day” today.” 

Crowley frowned. In the past, when he’d told Aziraphale that he was having a “chill day”, it really meant that he was going to have a mope because he was feeling particularly angry or sad or stressed about something. Aziraphale seemed to notice, because he quickly said, 

“I don’t mind, Papa. I quite like Chill Days.” 

Crowley nodded, taking a mouthful of mac and cheese so he wouldn’t have to say anything. Childish, perhaps, but the artificial taste in his mouth provided some sort of distraction from the thoughts swirling around his mind. 

They ate the rest of their dinner in relative silence. Every so often, Crowley would steal glances at Aziraphale over his bowl. It was like someone had just taken the older Aziraphale and shrunk him down. Having said that, the toddler’s hair was a little wild, but still that bleached blond colour many believed to be fake. With his smiling eyes and radiating grin, the kid looked positively heavenly. Just like Aziraphale had. 

Once they’d finished eating, Crowley took their bowls and dumped them in the sink, and, as an afterthought, threw the kid a chocolate bar. He squealed with delight as he carefully unwrapped it, nibbling it daintily. Crowley grinned softly, watching from the kitchen. 

He couldn’t help but think that this was all a bit strange. After all, he’d loved Aziraphale for six thousand years, and earlier, he’d been just about ready to storm the gates of Heaven to get him back. Now, though, here Aziraphale was, but it just wasn’t the  _ same  _ Aziraphale, not really. Sure, even at this early stage, that warm fuzzy feeling was growing in his chest for the kid. It may be love, even, but it wasn’t the same sort of burning, aching, passionate love he’d felt for all of those years. It was a tentative love, a love that wasn’t exactly sure of itself but a love that knew it would do anything to protect the small creature in the other room. 

Anyway. Cocoa. He had promised the kid. 

“D’you want to start getting ready for bed?” he called out. Aziraphale looked up and him and pouted. The demon looked up at the clock: it was nearly seven o’clock, probably a suitable bedtime for a two year old. “Don’t give me that look. I’ll bring you cocoa and we can read a story?” 

Aziraphale smiled, nodded, jumped up and ran towards the extra room Crowley had created to be his bedroom. 

The demon let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. There, a few minutes of peace and quiet whilst the kid dressed himself. Should kids dress themselves? His corporeal heart seized for a moment, but then he rethought. This was  _ Aziraphale _ : he couldn’t be in much danger. Could he? No, no, he couldn’t. 

Glancing to the door, he locked it with a nod of his head. At the same moment, Aziraphale came bounding out of his bedroom. He was clutching at a book. 

“Can we read this one, Papa!?” he yelled excitedly. “Please, please,  _ pleaaaaaaaase _ !?!!”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley laughed, taking the book from the kid’s tiny hands. He stared hard at the cover. It read ‘The Gruffalo’. “Why don’t you go and get into bed, I’ll make the cocoa and I’ll come through in a minute, hm?” 

Aziraphale beamed at him and ran back through to his bedroom. 

Of course, Crowley didn’t actually  _ make  _ the cocoa. He miracled it into existence and waited the appropriate amount of time before taking it and the book into Aziraphale’s room. 

The kid was already tucked up in bed, looking expectantly up at him. Crowley passed the mug to him with a warning to be careful before sitting in the chair next to the bed. Crossing his legs, he opened the book and cleared his throat. 

“A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood,” he began. 

Aziraphale giggled, cream on his nose. 

Maybe he could get used to this parenting lark. 

888888

He waited for almost two hours afterwards to make sure that Aziraphale was fully asleep before making contact. 

He didn’t bother the circle or the candles or any of that ridiculousness. They’d been told that if they ever needed to get in contact, all they had to do was pray. 

So that’s what Crowley did. For the first time in a long time, Crowley prayed.

The reply was extraordinarily quick, almost instant. A soft glow filled the room, just like it had done in the Bentley. 

_ My child,  _ the voice said. It sounded worried.  _ I heard about Aziraphale. Is he with you?  _

"Actually, that's what I want to talk to you about," Crowley said through gritted teeth. 

There was a pregnant pause. Tension seemed to fill the room, infusing itself through the Light and Crowley's very being. He held his breath, waiting for a response. 

_ This is My fault,  _ the voice said. 

"How?" the demon asked. "I'm pretty sure the only reason he even  _ has  _ a new body is because of You." 

_ But I did not word it properly,  _ She replied.  _ I left them a loophole. I should have thought. I should have considered the consequences.  _

Crowley had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, like when you are confronted with a crying long-lost relative at a family friend's funeral. 

"If it helps, it could be much worse," he said, rather uselessly in his opinion. 

_ I have just received the information,  _ She said.  _ They say that his body will age until it reaches the age of the old corporation. He does not remember a thing about his previous life.  _

"Yeah, I got that much," Crowley muttered dryly. 

_ He will get his memories back on his sixteenth birthday,  _ She continued, apparently unphased by his little comment.  _ Which is the 21st of October.  _

There was another break of silence. 

_ I've altered the memories of a lot of people,  _ She eventually told him.  _ Aziraphale's mother, your wife, was killed in a fatal car crash that almost killed Aziraphale. The perpetrator is the man who killed Aziraphale today. This happened when Aziraphale was just one years old. He has no memory of the incident or his mother.  _

With a small longing noise, there was a folder of documents on Crowley's lap. When he opened it, he found newspaper clippings of the "incident", a picture of a tiny-looking Aziraphale on life support machines, an old Polaroid of Crowley kissing the cheek of a woman who looked suspiciously like the angel. It was basically everything he could have needed to prove the cover story. 

"So what now?" Crowley asked, desperation plain in his voice. "Am I supposed to just raise him like a normal kid?" 

_ You will have to,  _ She replied sadly.  _ I cannot interfere until the corporation has stopped aging. Only then can I perhaps do something. Until then, My child, you are on your own.  _

Before Crowley could even begin to articulate the hundreds of questions swirling around his mind, the Light disappeared with a pop. 

Bar a small child sleeping soundly in the other room, Crowley was alone. 

With a sort of morbid fascination, he began to read through the file. The newspaper articles were horrifying, detailing this horrific crash in which "young mother Summer Fell, just 25, was killed when a drunken, uninsured driver ploughed into her as she was crossing a busy street in Soho, London. Her baby son Aziraphale, one, was also with her, but Summer sacrificed her life in order to save her son's by throwing herself in front of the pushchair. We are lead to believe that the baby boy is in a critical condition in hospital". Many of the other articles were similar, documenting Aziraphale's seemingly miraculous recovery. Crowley barely managed to contain his surprised shriek when he came across a picture of himself. He was sitting on a hospital bed, Aziraphale on his knees. They were grinning at each other, but Crowley could sense the pain behind his own eyes. It was a demon thing. 

According to one article, the driver had been unanimously declared guilty by the jury, and was sentenced to up to twenty four years in jail, minimum. 

Crowley didn't feel like that was enough. 

It was almost an hour before he shut the folder, but not before he took out a small picture. It was he and Aziraphale, the kid looking to be a similar age to what he was now. They were pulling stupid faces at the camera. Crowley smiled softly and tucked it into his jacket pocket, although not before magically setting it to be his screensaver. The folder was stowed away in a high locked cupboard that the kid would never reach. 

He glanced towards the bedroom door and sighed. Maybe, in a few years, this would all be over and it could go back to how it used to be, to how it was supposed to be. 

For now, though, he had a kid to raise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really hope you enjoyed!! Please don't forget to leave comments and kudos x


	3. An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Doctor's Office... (isn't there supposed to be a punchline here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!!!!! I kept sitting down to write and then just... nothing. BUT the update is finally here, if not over a week late. Again I'm so sorry this took the length of time it did, but I can officially say that I am on school holidays until September now though, and I have a full plan so I know exactly where this is going.   
> Please enjoy!

The thing that was really give Crowley the heebie-jeebies was the birth certificate. 

It wasn't like he hadn't seen a birth certificate before. He'd actually had many over the years, mostly carbon copies with the dates slightly altered. This birth certificate, though, was stirring something deep inside of him that he'd thought he'd lost long ago. 

No, this was no ordinary birth certificate, because according to this birth certificate, Anthony J. Crowley is the proud father of a one Aziraphale Christopher* Fell, born on the 21st of October. 

*Patron Saint of strength, protection and travellers

_ Father.  _ He’d been testing out the word, rolling it around his mouth and slipping it off of his tongue for nearly an hour now, but he still wasn’t used to it.  _ Father.  _ So much weight on one tiny word.  _ Father.  _ A weight that, for the next fourteen years at least, he would have to bear. 

Crowley sighed, putting it to the side before reaching over and pulling Aziraphale’s sizeable medical records towards him. There were many different problems, by the looks of it. Asthma. Juvenile arthritis, especially in the wrists, according to the documents. Apparently, the kid was due some shots. Crowley would, of course, be vaccinating the kid. He wasn’t stupid, far from it. He’d rather the kid make it to sixteen alive and as well as possible. 

The one thing that was puzzling him was the sheer amount of fundamental problems with the body. Usually, the bodies came fully equipped, barely a problem in sight. This one, though… Too many problems with this body for Crowley’s liking. Quietly, he sent a message up to God. He got a reply almost immediately: 

_ Gabriel and Michael put the body together rather hastily. They’re not the best builders. _

He sighed heavily. Of  _ fucking  _ course. He glanced at his watch, and had to pinch himself. How was it nearly five a.m!?! It had been 7:30 p.m not two minutes ago! The kid would probably be up soon, wouldn’t he? Little kids were supposed to do stuff like that. 

To be fair, Aziraphale seemed to have settled in well. He hadn’t known any different, though, in his mind. Never in their six thousand years had Crowley seen those eyes look so blank and innocent. Always they had been sparkling with some sort of brevity or wit, but now they were… child-like. It wasn't right, not for those eyes. 

With a snap of the demon's fingers, a doctor's appointment for them was all of a sudden inserted into the GP surgery's computer system. When asked, all of the reception staff swore that they didn't remember making it, but there it was. 

Satisfied in his work, Crowley yawned, locked the folder away and put his head down for a quick nap. 

Children, it later transpired contrary to his previous thoughts, are a lot harder to care for than plants. 

After only an hour of sleep, Crowley was woken up by a small weight hit him directly in the stomach. He groaned, eyes shooting open. Sure enough, there was Aziraphale, giggling away like it was the funniest thing in the world! Crowley shook his head, biting back a hiss. 

“Morning,” he said gruffly. Aziraphale laughed a high-pitched bubbly laugh. 

“Morning, Papa!” he replied, pressing a kiss to the demon’s cheek. “What are we doing today?” 

Squinting, Crowley pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose and looked at the kid. He was dressed in a pair of knee-length khaki shorts, and an astronaut t-shirt that was on backwards. One of his socks, which were odd, was inside out. 

“How long have you been up, bud?” he asked as he sat up. 

“A few hours,” the kid said. “I dressed myself, Papa!” 

“I can see that…” Crowley chuckled. He shook his head, reaching over and gently tugging the t-shirt off. He did his best not to stare at how prominent Aziraphale’s ribs were. It wasn’t in an exactly unhealthy way, per se, just in that little-kid way. Still disturbed Crowley no end. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment at eleven,” he said. Aziraphale sighed heavily, watching the shirt be turned the right way. “Got to get a couple of injections.” 

Immediately, the kid’s eyes filled with tears, and he stared up at the demon. 

“I don’t like the needles, Papa,” he murmured. 

“I know, I know,” Crowley said soothingly, gesturing for Aziraphale to put his arms up so he could slip the kid’s t-shirt back on. “But it’s a necessary evil, I’m afraid.” 

“But it  _ hurts _ ,” Aziraphale complained. His voice was muffled by the t-shirt. 

“I know, bud,” Crowley said. “But it’s got to be done.” 

He was pulling Aziraphale’s inside-out sock off now, turning it the right way out. The kid was pouting. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he warned, putting the kid’s sock back on. “I suppose I better feed you, you little rascal. How does cereal sound?” 

It was like magic! The pout was gone, replaced with a huge smile and an enthusiastic nod. Crowley grinned, ruffled those unruly blond curls and started making his way to the kitchen. 

Now, Crowley wasn’t a very good cook. The word  _ cook  _ itself was a very optimistic description. One of the things that Crowley had very rarely, if ever, indulged in on earth was food. Food was more the angel’s thing. That being said, he did have a state-of-the-art, fully decked-out kitchen, but that was purely for aesthetic purposes. Yesterday had been the first time he’d ever even used it! His culinary skills were lacking, limited to the basics of toast and microwavable meals. He was pretty sure that if the fancy for eggs ever struck him, he’d have to Google how to cook them. But there was a kid in the equation now, so it was looking like he was going to have to learn pretty sharpish. 

This was only cereal, though. He was pretty sure he could manage cereal. 

The kid was following him like he was casing him for a murder or something. Trailing along behind, never letting him out of his sight.  It was like he was afraid that Crowley would disappear if he couldn’t see him. Was that normal? Crowley wasn’t sure. Perhaps his parenting technique and his approach to the doctor’s appointment had been a bit too on the nose. He’d only been honest. He thought that would be better, because he’d feel like he was insulting the angel’s intelligence if he tried to flim-flam the kid into something he didn’t particularly want to do. He was going to do it anyway, of course. Wasn’t that what being a parent meant? Doing stuff with-slash-to your kid that they don’t want to do for their own good? 

It was at this point that Crowley realised that he’d been staring at the small collection of cereal boxes in the cupboard for almost a minute and a half, and the kid was tugging anxiously on the sleeve of his crumpled blazer. 

“Are you okay, Papa?” the boy asked tearfully. The sight of those soft blue eyes filled with tears simply melted Crowley, and he reached down, picking the kid up and balancing him on his hip.  _ Gotta give the kid a full choice for breakfast,  _ he thought defensively. 

“I’m fine, just…” Crowley paused, searching for the right word. “Zoned out, that’s all.” 

Aziraphale nodded, but he did not seem very convinced. 

In the end, Aziraphale picked Frosties for breakfast. The demon’s eyes nearly popped out when he saw the sheer amount of sugar in it, but since he didn’t want a Terrible Twos tantrum on his hands, he let it slide. Just this once, though, he swore. 

As he ate his own bowl of cereal wandering aimlessly around the flat, kicking away toys as he went, he found himself coming to stand at the window and stare down at the Bentley. Should he take the kid to the doctor’s in it? On one hand, it was infinitely quicker and less dirty than public transport, but on the other… Yes, perhaps the bus was a better option. Exposure. Get the kid some real-world experience. 

After breakfast, they brushed their teeth together. You didn’t hear it from me, but even before this little, ahem,  _ development  _ had taken place, Crowley had had strawberry flavoured toothpaste, since he often felt that the minty stuff left much to be desired. Not that anybody had to know that, of course…

He left the kid watching Peppa Pig in the living room whilst he went to get changed. At first, he had been apprehensive about leaving him alone for so long, but then he remembered about a fabulous invention he’d heard about some years ago called a baby monitor. There was one installed with a snap of his fingers, and he had a feeling he could trust Aziraphale not to break anything. The kid was a literal angel, after all. 

Crowley sighed heavily snapped his fingers. Instantly, his ensemble was no longer crumpled from having been slept in, and the powdery orange stain from the mac and cheese that had been on his slat grey t-shirt had vanished. 

Despite himself, Crowley found himself yawning. Being a celestial creature, he didn’t strictly  _ need  _ sleep, but over the years he’d become quite used to getting almost twelve hours every night. Given the sleep deprivation, and the extortionate amount of miracles he’d been performing of late, he felt utterly burnt out. No matter. He’d get this doctor’s appointment over and done with, then he’d find a movie to put on that he could fall asleep to when they got back. Yeah, that sounded lovely. He snorted at his own thoughts. He beginning to sound more and more like Aziraphale every day. 

Not that that was a problem, of course. 

To be sure that they were at the doctor’s surgery on time, they left the house just before 10 a.m. It took a little coaxing and a few possibly false promises to drag Aziraphale away from the television, but once they were out of the flat the little boy seemed to come into his essence, happy and chatty and bouncing around without a care in the world. He insisted on carrying a small backpack which looked suspiciously like the one Crowley had seen not twenty minutes earlier on  _ Andy’s Dinosaur Adventures*,  _ but he decided not to mention it. 

*Which he had privately decided was  _ the most  _ annoying TV show on the planet. Seriously. (The author would like to note here that they totally agree with the demon Crowley, and that yes this is an actual TV show)

They were just about the leave the apartment block when Crowley heard a voice call out his name from behind. More specifically, he heard a high-pitched and instantly recognisable female voice call his name. He internally groaned. It was Mrs Garringston, a widow from three doors down. She was lovely, really, just a little… talkative at times*. Irrationally, Crowley had a moment of wild panic, thinking he’d forgotten to edit her memory, but he calmed down when she then called Aziraphale’s name. 

*AKA all the time

Mentally preparing himself, Crowley took a deep breath, plastered on his best worst fake smile and turned around. 

“Mrs Garringston!” he exclaimed, doing his absolute best to sound positively delighted about her appearance. “How are you doing? How’s Fuzz Aldrin?”

He internally cringed as he said it. Mrs Garringston had been naming her cats stupid names since before Crowley popularised it. The old lady blushed a little and giggled. 

“Oh, he’s just fine,” she said. “But I’m sure you and Aziraphale here don’t want to hear about that!” 

She leant down a little, so she was more on the kid’s level. Aziraphale beamed at her. 

“Hello, Mrs Garringston!” he said, echoing Crowley’s tone*. 

*Although, unlikely Crowley, he was genuinely delighted to see her

“Oh, look how you’ve grown, dearie!” she gushed as she ruffled his blond curls. Crowley couldn’t help himself, damn it, but to smile a little. “You’ll be as tall as your father before we know it!” 

She looked up at Crowley, and he found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the sadness in her eyes. 

“Oh, he  _ does  _ look like Summer, doesn’t he?” she murmured. 

It took Crowley a moment to realise that this was his cue to look upset. To be fair, he later mused, the deer-in-headlights expression probably helped his cause. That was an appropriate reaction to hear your dead wife’s name, right? 

“He does,” he replied, remembering to make his voice just a little hoarse as he rested a hand atop Aziraphale’s head. 

They chatted for a few more minutes about the most mundane of things. Crowley didn’t fail to notice how she made sure to keep Aziraphale included in the conversation, something he knew most adults didn’t bother to do. Some of his former misgivings about the woman found themselves suddenly melting away. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Garringston,” he eventually said, an apologetic look on his face. “But we really do have to be going. Doctor’s appointment,” (as he said this, he gently patted Aziraphale’s shoulder) “you see.” 

“Oh, well then you best have a little something before you go, young man,” Mrs Garringston said, reaching into her pocket conspiratorially. Aziraphale held his breath, and then squealed with delight when she handed him a small apple-flavoured lollipop. Crowley smiled fondly at him, and then remembered something. 

“What do we say?” he asked. 

“Fank ‘oo!” Aziraphale said from around the lollipop. Mrs Garringston gave the pair a fond smile before starting to limp off towards the lift. Crowley watched her go before gently taking Aziraphale’s hand and walking them out to the bus stop. 

The bus driver- a bright-looking young woman who must not have been in the job long, given that she still had life behind her eyes- was also quick to remark on how cute Aziraphale was, and how advanced his language was when the kid quickly told her how pretty her hair looked before running off down to the bottom of the stairs, waiting eagerly for Crowley to pay. Since Aziraphale was under five, he rode free, and thanks to a momentary blackout on the driver’s part, so did Crowley. 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to come over to him before he clambered up the stairs, immediately running for the very front seats. Chuckling, Crowley followed him. Why did little kids love the front seat so much? He’d never particularly understood it. Somehow, as he watched Aziraphale giggle and make small brumming noises as the bus pulled off, he didn’t particularly care, either. 

888888

The waiting room was, for lack of a better word, rammed. 

Even Crowley, who had spent many an unpleasant day in the crowded, dirty confines of Hell, let out a low whistle when they walked in to immediately join a rather long queue. There were little kids, crying and moaning as their noses ran and they coughed over everything. Then there were the old people, joints creaking as everything inside of them was methodically shutting down. Lastly, the adults, many of whom were glued to their phones, doing their very best to ignore the groans of the kids and the grunts of the old. 

During their wait in the line, which was approximately twenty minutes long, exactly three people were called. Three! Not only that, but when they actually got to the front, he had to explain to the receptionist six  _ bloody  _ times how to spell Aziraphale’s name! He had heard people behind him getting annoyed, the tutting and foot tapping starting in earnest, but Crowley silenced them all with a glowering glare. Aziraphale himself was seemingly none the wiser, chattering away about something or other. Even after all of that, there was nowhere to sit, so they ended up standing awkwardly by the toilets. Crowley noted, with perhaps the smallest flash of pride, how the kid copied how he leant against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. 

“Papa?” Aziraphale said after a few minutes of listening to the crappy radio the clinic had hooked up to an even crappier sound system. 

“Yeah, angel?” Crowley asked, turning his head a little to look at the kid. 

“Why do I have to get a injec-shun?” 

“Because they protect you from nasty germs that could make you sick,” Crowley replied, smooth as ever. 

“How?” 

It was a very good question. Crowley was a little fuzzy on the origin of vaccines, given that he’d been rather predisposed in 1796*. However, when the anti-vaxx movement started up, he’d done his research, mainly in an attempt to gauge who’s side had started it. 

*He’d been wallowing over what his and Aziraphale’s dinner in Paris three years earlier had meant

“They get a very weak version of the bad germs,” the demon explained. “And they inject it into so your immune system-” 

“What’s that?” Aziraphale interrupted. 

“Um…” Crowley wasn’t sure how to explain it to a two-year-old. “Well, I suppose it’s a bit like warriors for your body, fighting off the bad guys. Because the germs are so weak, your immune system can fight them very easily. It’s very clever, though, your immune system, because it remembers the bad germs, so if you ever get the full strength version of the bad germs your body can fight it off.” 

Aziraphale considered this for a moment before nodding and launching into an incredibly detailed recount of the day’s episode of Fireman Sam. 

It was a further thirty excruciatingly long minutes before Aziraphale’s name was called. Relieved that he could get out of the stuffy waiting room, which was growing steadily fuller, he grabbed the kid’s hand and walked him down the corridor into the doctor’s room. 

When they entered, the doctor- a smiley Indian gentleman with a friendly sort of beard- smiled at them. Crowley took a seat first, expecting Aziraphale to take the one next to him, but the boy clambered up and sat square on his lap. He shrugged. 

“Crowley, it’s nice to see you again,” the doctor- Doctor Alan James, according to his name tag- said. “Since it’s under such a routine thing.” He now turned to Aziraphale, smiling warmly. “Same goes for you, Aziraphale.” 

The kid didn’t reply, instead sticking his thumb in his mouth and snuggling closer to Crowley. 

“I think he’s a bit nervous about the injection,” Crowley said as a way of explanation. Doctor James gave him a sympathetic look. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “Just have to do the normal checks first before we get on with that.” 

The “normal checks”, it turned out, were quite extensive. Reflexes were checked, muscle strength tested, heartbeat checked, lung function assessed. Crowley let the kid hold his hand as Doctor James tested the joints in his ankles in an attempt to see how the juvenile arthritis was. Every time the boy let out a small and pitiful “Ow!”, Crowley winced and let him squeeze his hand. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that his asthma isn’t getting any worse,” Doctor James told Crowley once he’d finished all of his little tests. “But it isn’t getting any better, either. I’ll give you a repeat prescription for his inhaler. Also, it looks like the arthritis might get worse as he gets older, especially when he starts school and starts getting his growth spurts when he’s older. There’s not much we can do now, but when he’s a little older we may consider putting him on some sort of biological response modifier, to decrease the swelling and allow him to live as normal a life a possible.” 

He paused, letting Crowley take this all in. It did take Crowley that pause as well, as his brain was still a little slow and tired. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied quickly, the exhaustion clear in his voice. “Sorry, I just,” he paused to shift up in his seat. “Haven’t been sleeping too well, that’s all. I’m alright.” 

Doctor James nodded in a doctorly way before looking at Aziraphale in a very serious way. 

“You ready, champ?” he asked. Aziraphale shook his head nervously, getting as close to Crowley as was physically possible. Fighting the urge to protect this kid at all costs, Crowley turned Aziraphale towards the doctor as he went into his cupboard, taking out the needles. When Aziraphale saw them, he gasped and his eyes filled with tears. 

“Hey, angel, hey,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale turned his head to him, and the demon was struck by the look of pure  _ terror  _ on the kid’s face. “Look at me, angel. You’re alright, I promise.” 

Subtly, he nodded at the doctor. 

“But-but it’s so  _ big _ !” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley winced a little. Aziraphale had never been one for loud terror. He was more the silent and scared type. “It’s going to hurt.” 

“It won’t, I promise.” 

“It  _ will _ !” 

“Have I ever lied to you, angel?” 

It took a moment, but the little angel slowly shook his head. 

“No, Papa,” he said in a small voice. 

Doctor James had readied the needle, and was waiting for Crowley to give him the go-ahead. He nodded a little again, and the doctor started approaching Aziraphale with the needle. 

“How about, after this, we go and get some ice cream?” he asked, his voice soft. Aziraphale nodded just as a tear slipped down his cheek. “C’mon, no crying, angel. You’re alright. You’re here with me, and I’ll always protect you no matter what, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled up at him-- and then yelped when the needle was jabbed into his arm. 

“There, all done,” Doctor James announced as the kid turned and gave him a truly betrayed look. “That wasn’t that bad, was it?” 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, and then down to his lap. 

“ _ No _ ,” he mumbled moodily. Crowley had to stifle a giggle. 

Doctor James smiled at him before reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a sheet of stickers and superhero-themed plasters. Instantly, Aziraphale perked up, all misgivings towards the doctor seemingly forgotten. He quickly chose a Spiderman plaster, and a jelly bean scented sticker. 

“I’ll be seeing you two again in six months, then?” Doctor James said as they were walking out. Crowley was carrying Aziraphale, because the kid had decided that he didn’t want to walk anymore. The doctor had warned that he might be a little woozy. “If you need me, though, don’t hesitate to call me, please.” 

Crowley nodded and told him that he would before heading back out of the surgery. 

888888

The ice cream shop, considering it was in Mayfair, was incredibly quiet. 

Aziraphale had had a quick nap on the bus ride back. Crowley had been weirdly jealous, but he’d had to stay awake to make sure no-one kidnapped the kid and to make sure they got off at the right stop. The kid had only woken up just as they got to the ice cream shop, and he was now munching away happily at a vanilla cone with a flake as Crowley watched on fondly sipping at an iced mocha. So he was a basic bitch, sue him. 

“I’m really proud of you today, Az,” he said softly. Aziraphale looked up at him, a little surprised. There was ice cream all around his mouth, and smeared all over his cheeks. 

“Thank you, Papa,” he said, taking another lick of his cone. 

“How about we watch a movie this afternoon?” Crowley asked. “Just you and me?” 

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, letting out a series of small but loud squeaks. A few people looked up in alarm, and a couple glared, but one look over the glasses from Crowley had them staring very hard at their desserts and wondering about what exactly they’d done wrong in their lives. 

“The Jungle Book!” he cried, clasping his little hands together. The puppy-dog eyes were back with a vengeance, and that vengeance was aimed at Crowley’s ability to say no. “Please please  _ please _ !” 

Crowley had never been very good at resisting his angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING SOON: Crowley learns that the honeymoon period doesn't last forever, and our boys venture out of the flat
> 
> Please remember to leave comments and kudos, they really keep me going!! I'll try and have the next update out by Sunday, but I can't promise anything but please stay tuned xxx


	4. A Good Sob Story Always Gets 'Em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is out early! Five days is good for me lol. I'll try and have the next chapter out sooner, really, I will.

Crowley should’ve known that the honeymoon period had been too good to last. 

For about two weeks, the kid had been good. Bloody fabulous, actually. He’d been well-behaved, he’d done what he was asked when he was asked to do it with minimal complaining, and he was just… sweet, Crowley supposed. It was nice. Different, but nice all the same. 

At least, it was until Sunday night two weeks later. 

Like any other person who owned a telly in the United Kingdom, Crowley often devoted his Sunday nights to Antiques Roadshow. It wasn’t that he  _ liked  _ the programme- in fact, he highly doubted that anyone actually enjoyed Antiques Roadshow- but it was good to fall asleep to on a lazy evening. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, adored Antiques Roadshow. 

As a demon, Crowley should have been encouraging late bedtimes, violent video games and as much vulgar language as the kid could think of. The problem was, Crowley inexplicably found himself wanting to be a good father figure to the kid, so he’d been instigating a few rules. Bedtime is at 7 p.m, no waking Papa up before 6:30 in the morning, if you want or need something you must ask for it, only two hours a day on the IPad and you must ask before you use it, that sort of thing. Crowley didn’t think that these rules were unreasonable, and neither did Aziraphale, really. 

At least, he hadn’t until Antiques Roadshow came on. 

The past couple of weeks, Crowley had managed to placate the kid by recording the show and letting him watch it the next day, no matter how much it made him want to fall asleep. Normally, Aziraphale would be fine with that and he’d scurry off to bed, good as ever. Tonight, he was having none of it, and it was getting on Crowley’s wits.

“No!” he said again from where he was sitting on the sofa. Aziraphale was standing in front of him clutching his favourite stuffed animal, a small cream-coloured bear with tartan patches on the feet, hands and ears, and a small tartan bow tie. “Rules are rules, Az. I’ll record it for you, but you’re not staying up!” 

“Papa, pl _ eeeeeeeeee _ ase?” Aziraphale begged. The eyes, the eyes that Crowley had thought were limited to emojis and cartoons only, were back, and the bottom lip was trembling, but Crowley wasn’t going to give in. He had to put his foot down sometimes. 

“Aziraphale, my answer is final,” Crowley replied, feeling quite proud of how authoritative his voice sounded. Not that he let that show on his face, of course. He kept the serious expression. 

Aziraphale pressed his lips very tightly together for a moment before opening his mouth and  _ screaming _ . 

Crowley’s first thought was  _ holy shit holy shit holy shit, I’ve barely had the kid a fortnight and he’s already possibly dying.  _ His second thought, however, was more along the lines of  _ wait, he can’t possibly be dying.  _ The third thought was  _ oh for fuck’s sake, not this.  _

Crowley knew what a tantrum was. Damn, he invented them*! What was is that Aziraphale had once said?  _ “Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction” _ , that’s it. Never had he agreed with that statement more than now. 

*Not like that, dear reader. He quietly taught one of the kids that he saved from the Mesopotamian flood that a good way to get grown ups to give you things was to scream and cry until they got fed up with the noise

“Oh come on, please don’t…” Crowley murmured despairingly. It was no use: the scream continued long and high and  _ loud _ . Jesus Christ it was loud. The neighbours were probably going to think that he was torturing the poor kid, or they would have done if the walls weren’t completely sound-proofed. It seemed to go on forever before Aziraphale shut his mouth and glared defiantly at Crowley. 

“If you think that’s going to work-” Crowley managed to say before the angel began to cry. 

They were great big gulping sobs, not quite as loud as the scream but definitely more profound. Crowley’s heart broke just a little bit more with each tear that dripped from the kid’s eyes. He just wanted to sweep him up in his arms and tell him it was all alright, that he could watch the damn Antiques Roadshow, but if he let him get away with this, then he’d never learn about authority, would he? 

“Aziraphale,” he tried to shout over the sobs. “Angel-” 

“NO!” Aziraphale screamed, his voice full of anger. “Why?” 

“Why what, buddy?” Crowley asked, doing his best to stay calm. 

“Why not!?” 

It took the demon a moment to figure out what the small boy meant. 

“Because that’s the rule, Az,” he said, his voice as patient as he could get it to be. “Bedtime is 7 o’clock, and I’m not changing it just because you want to watch a TV program.” 

“But that’s not FAIR!” Aziraphale shouted. As if to prove his point, he stamped his foot and pouted just a little more. 

“Az-” 

“It’s NOT!!” 

“Aziraphale-” 

“I HATE YOU!” 

Wow. That one stung. Crowley stopped, blinking. His patience had been wearing thin before, but now it was like he’d just been kicked in the ribs. 

“You don’t mean that,” he said softly. 

“I DO!” the kid shouted back, clenching his fists. “I HATE YOU AND I HATE THE RULES AND-AND-and....” 

He trailed off, pausing to take a deep breath. The tears were still coming thick and fast, and he was glaring with more conviction than Crowley had ever seen before. 

“Think about what you’re saying,” Crowley said. His voice was quite dull and emotionless. 

“I’M NOT STUPID!!” Aziraphale roared. 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

“I know what I’m saying!” he shouted. “And I mean it!” 

“Aziraphale Christian Fell,” Crowley warned, his tone growing low and thunderous. “You are on thin ice, young man.” 

“I don’t care!” 

Crowley took a deep breath through his nose. He was not equipped for this. If he stayed in this room for much longer, he was going to say something he regretted and screw everything up with this kid forever. 

So, instead of waiting for Aziraphale to say something else, he turned on the heels of his snakeskin shoes and walked into his bedroom. 

This, it transpired, was even worse. There was another scream, but this time, it wasn’t frustration. It was terror. 

That was the last straw. Crowley had wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, but it was looking like the only option left. Steeling himself, he let out a shaky breath and flung his hands up. 

The ethereal plane was so much calmer than the real world. In the real world, there were cars and televisions and screaming toddlers. Here, it was beautifully empty, but not too empty like Heaven. Not too full like Hell, either. Just right. If it didn’t expend so much energy, Crowley would probably spend the majority of his time in the ethereal plane. Alas, no. He was here to do a job. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, frantically Googling ‘How to stop a toddler tantrum’. He could’ve done this in reality, yes, but Aziraphale had sounded so frightened… At least if he looked it up here, he could go straight to comforting him when he got back. 

He quickly found an extremely helpful website pretty quickly. Apparently he wasn’t the only person to have this problem. There was ten steps. One of them wasn’t to leave the room. 

Oops. 

He quickly read through the rest of the guide, and he had a moment to himself before bringing himself back into the real world. The moment he did, Aziraphale screamed, 

“PAPA!” and he found himself bouncing up and sprinting into the living room. 

He had barely walked into the threshold of the living room before Aziraphale barrelled into his legs. He was crying madly, sniffing heavily, burying his face in Crowley’s thighs. Crowley knelt down, making sure to give him the warmest hug he could possibly manage. 

“Shh, buddy, you’re alright,” he murmured, running one hand through the kid’s hair. “I’m here, I’m here.” 

“I-I-I-I thought you’d l-left me, Papa,” Aziraphale snivelled, clutching at him. 

“I’ll never leave you, Az,” Crowley said. “Never.” 

“B-but you were s-so angry, a-and then you we-were gone…” 

Aziraphale was taking his breaths in gulps, interrupting his speech. Crowley held him gently by the arms away from him, mimicking deep breaths. Aziraphale slowly began to copy, and Crowley wiped away his tears.

“I love you, Az,” the demon said. 

“Love you too, Papa,” Aziraphale replied, if a little tearily. “‘M sorry about what I said.” 

“I know you are, bud.” Crowley said. 

“Didn’t mean it.” 

“I guessed as much.” 

Aziraphale sniffed deeply, leaning down and picking up his teddy, which he’d dropped when he’d ran at Crowley. Without any argument, he slowly walked into his room, crawling up onto his bed and underneath the covers. Crowley followed and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you want to…” Crowley found himself cringing at himself, but he stopped. This was for the kid’s own good. “Talk about it?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, yawning. 

“Story, then?” 

Another silent no. Crowley smiled softly, leaning down and kissing the top of his head. 

“Sleep well, angel.” 

888888

It wasn’t until much later, when Crowley was slugging an expensive old whiskey straight out of the bottle, that he realised just how close the kid’s birthday was. 

Technically, all celestial beings* have birthdays. All angels and the original demons, the ones who first Fell and were not a result of breeding in Hell, had the same birthday as the heaven and the earth: 21st of October 4004 BC. On earth, Crowley had never really given birthdays much thought: they’d remind him too much of The Old Days. He couldn’t even remember what the birthday on his current birth certificate  _ was _ . He was going to have to celebrate with the kid, though. How, he had no idea, but they would. 

*Bar the Almighty Herself

The kid would be… what, three? That meant that Crowley was going to have to start applying for pre-schools* soon. He groaned deeply, taking another swig from the bottle. Schools were a  _ nightmare _ , especially when you’re trying to apply for them. Crowley should know: he invented the forms. 

*Note for non-UK dwellers: in England at least, a child starts pre-school (which is basically a glorified daycare, often attached to a primary or infant school) at three years of age. The first year of school, Reception or Year R (depending on what your school calls it), is started when a child is four. The last year of primary school is Year 6, and they start secondary in Year 7 when they are eleven. Secondary finishes with Year 11 when a child is sixteen, but legally they must stay in full-time education until eighteen (whether that be college, sixth form or an apprenticeship). 

Applications opened in October, didn’t they? Technically, he could get the kid in for January, but if he was honest* he wanted some more time to get to know the kid and to, well, bond with him a bit. He was going to have to look after the kid for fourteen years, after all. No, next September would work just fine. 

*And he was a lot more honest when he was pisshead drunk

Crowley glanced despairingly around his apartment. Once upon a time not too long ago, it had been a beautifully minimalist design, a true representation of modern art at its finest. When artists such as Frank Stella and Yayoi Kusama, minimalists of their time, got together, they would secretly and reverently whisper about the Mayfair apartment of the notorious Anthony J Crowley. 

“I heard that the only colour there is the throne and the plants,” they would murmur as they sipped cocktails in the corner of a seedy Soho pub. 

No longer did the flat resemble that once sacred place. Now, there were stuffed toys and coloured paper and books everywhere. He kept finding crayons in places he didn’t even realise crayons could fit. There were food stains in various strategic places in the living room, and the dining room, and the bedrooms. Every so often, Crowley would put his foot down and the jolly jingle of some  _ stupid  _ V-Tech car would start up. The demon had half a mind to throw them all out of the window onto some real roads to see if they could bloody cope with that. And the Lego. Don’t even get him  _ started  _ on the Lego. He’d invented the blasted design in 1958, so that parents everywhere would swear and hop around in pain when their bare feet came into contact with the harsh plastic studs. Combine that with tiredness and a harsh nine-to-five job, the low-grade evil had been phenomenal! He’d got a commendation for that. Apparently, he’d heard from a lower-grade demon that they’d sent to get a report from him once that there was now a whole section of Hell where damned souls were forced to walk on a bed of Legos for eternity. 

There were also drawing pads scattered around, a few of them open. Already, the kid seemed to be proving himself quite the little artists. Some of the pictures were impressively good, possibly on the sort of scale that Crowley himself could have managed. 

Crowley wasn’t much of an artist. On one memorable occasion, he’d managed to draw a half-decent cartoon turtle. He’d framed it, and he still had it tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Not that he was proud or anything. 

He yawned, dragging a hand along his face. He didn’t have the energy left to sober up, so he was just going to have to deal with the hangover tomorrow. Whiskey was awful like that. 

Making sure not to step on anything that would make too much of a noise, Crowley stumbled into his room and promptly fell asleep in the doorway before he could make it to the bed. 

888888

When Crowley came to, he had a pounding headache, a churning stomach and Aziraphale hanging over him. 

“Ngk,” he said, trying to lift his head off of the cool stone floor. 

“Papa?” Aziraphale murmured. The kid was still in his pyjamas, and he was clutching his favourite stuffed bear. “Are you okay?” 

“Y’h,” Crowley said quickly, performing a quick miracle to calm his stomach and his head. “I’m fine, angel. Just fell asleep here, that’s all.” 

He hauled himself up, staggering a little and reaching out for the doorframe. Ugh. No more drinking and not sobering up whilst the kid was here and little. He didn’t want to end up on one of his three-day-long sessions again. He could get… quite violent when the alcohol unlocked unpleasant memories. The kid was too innocent for that. 

Aziraphale followed him into the kitchen, and Crowley lifted him up to sit on the side as he made coffee. The kid watched with fascination. 

“Can I have some?” he asked as the demon poured himself a cup black, two sugars. 

“No, Az,” Crowley said, taking a sip. “Grown-up drink.” 

Aziraphale pouted, but didn’t complain. 

To change things up a bit, Crowley decided to make toast. This turned out to be a rather bad idea. The demon burned the toast a grand total of eight times before he threw his hands up in the air and gave up.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going out for breakfast.” 

Aziraphale beamed and ran to get changed. He emerged about fifteen minutes later, he emerged in a pair of dark-ish blue fabric shorts, a white linen polo-type shirt and khaki sandals. He was wearing the most adorable holiday-type hat, with a blue lining and a fabric band around the middle part that was blue and white striped. Crowley had to take a moment so he didn’t melt at just how adorable the kid looked. 

“Where are we going, Papa?” Aziraphale asked, coming forward and taking Crowley’s hand in his tiny one. Crowley swallowed down his slight fear. 

“A little cafe,” he replied. “And then we’re going to go to the park for a bit, alright?” 

The small boy squealed with delight, jumping up and down excitedly. 

“We’ve never been to the park before!” he exclaimed. 

“How come?” Crowley asked, confused and momentarily forgetting that he should have known this, really. 

“‘Cause I’ve always been too sick to go before.” 

Crowley’s heart ached for a moment. All of a sudden, he realised just how tragic this kid’s backstory was: he’d lost his mother to a drunken driver, and the resulting injuries and his health issues had prevented him from being a normal, active toddler. It wasn’t fair, really. 

For his own sanity, Crowley decided not to think too much about it. 

Not in the mood for public transport, Crowley decided to take the Bentley. He was so aware that he had a kid strapped into a giant carseat in the seat next to him that he barely went above sixty the whole way to St James’ Park. It was quite strange, and the Bentley herself seemed to notice, the radio refusing to play anything but Absolute Radio Nineties, a station the car knew Crowley hated. Even so, he absent-mindedly found himself humming along to  _ Ice Ice Baby _ . Yes, he hated himself for it, but it also made Aziraphale laugh, so it was totally worth it. 

The cafe was your classic greasy spoon, a bit like the sort of cafe he used to meet Shadwell in. There was nothing wrong with a greasy spoon cafe, in Crowley’s opinion. The food was alright, and the staff were usually quite friendly. This cafe was no different, and when the two of them walked in, the woman behind the counter began to coo over the boy’s curls and his bright blue eyes. 

“Ooo, you don’t see enough lads and dads around!” she gushed as she set down Crowley’s coffee and Aziraphale’s hot chocolate.”What can I get you two?” 

The kid could read, Crowley knew that, but he was only two, after all. His literacy level probably wasn’t that high. Aziraphale held the menu out, and Crowley patiently read through the entire kid’s section. 

“Can I have the English breakfast, please?” Aziraphale asked in the sweetest voice. The woman beamed at him. The kid seemed to be having that effect on everyone, thought Crowley. 

“Of course you can, love,” she said, scribbling down before turning to Crowley. “What about you, Dad?” 

“Er, just toast, please,” he replied a little awkwardly. 

“You sure you don’t want anything more substantial, love?” the lady asked. 

“No, I’m alright.” 

The miracle on his hangover seemed to be wearing off a little, and the demon was aware of a mild pounding on his temples and a slight churning in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was up to much more than toast. The woman seemed to notice, and she gave him a wry smile before walking away behind the counter and presumably starting to gossip with the head chef, a wiry-looking lady of about fifty whom despite being five foot nothing was still utterly terrifying. 

“Careful with that,” Crowley warned as the young angel tried to take the mug in both hands. A sudden vision of the kid spilling the boiling hot drink all over himself flashed in his mind, and the demon reached forward, taking the mug and holding it to Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale gulped greedily at it, grinning. 

“How old do I have to be to have coffee?” he asked, wiping the cocoa from his top lip as Crowley placed the mug back down. 

“Eighteen,” Crowley replied quick as anything. 

“Why?”

“Because then you’ll be an adult.” 

“What does  _ ‘adult’  _ mean?” 

“Means that you’re old enough to drink, drive and have sex,” the demon said. “But don’t do all three at once,” he added as an afterthought. 

Then he remembered he was talking to a two year old. 

“Shi- shoot,” he murmured. “Just ignore that, kid. You didn’t hear anything.” 

“You’re silly, Papa!” Aziraphale giggled. 

Crowley smiled a little, but his headache was getting steadily worse. He didn’t think he had the energy to miracle it away, so he moved the cocoa mug out of Aziraphale’s reach, gave the kid his phone to mess around on and sauntered up to the counter. 

“Sorry to bother you, ladies,” he purred. “But I was just wondering if either of you happened to have any aspirin…?” 

The cook barked out a laugh, shaking her head as she pulled a pack of aspirin out of her pocket and threw it over to him. He barely caught it, and was fumbling with the packet when the serving woman slid a glass over the counter to him. He accepted it gratefully. 

“You’d be surprised how often people ask for it,” she said conversationally. Crowley smiled at her, taking the pill and swallowing it with a gulp of water. “So, where’s Mum today? At home sleeping off her own hangover?” 

“I wish,” Crowley remarked, looking down at the counter and looking appropriately upset. “She’s, um… she’s actually dead, you see.” 

The woman gasped, putting one hand over her mouth and the other on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I-I didn’t-” 

“It’s alright,” the demon said quickly. “You didn’t know. No harm done. Should probably, um, talk about it, anyway.” He managed to look at the woman for a moment, but the look of utter pity on her face made him look straight back down. “Drunk driver. She saved the kid’s life. About two years ago now. Happened just after his first birthday.” 

“Gosh, that’s awful,” the serving woman murmured. Crowley was surprised to find an actual lump forming in his throat as he thought about the way the driver had recklessly sped up the road, how bright and sparkling Aziraphale’s eyes had been, how he’d screamed the angel’s name, how it had done nothing to change things...

“Hang on a minute,” the cook said, dumping the egg she had been frying onto a plate and coming over to join them, flipping a tea towel over her shoulder. “Not that I was totally listening or anything, but wasn’t that the one the happened up the road in Soho?”

Crowley nodded. 

“Yeah, I remember now…” the serving woman replied. 

“Landmark case, that,” the cook remarked. “It was on the news and everything. It’s the whole reason why the alcohol limit is lower and sentences are longer.” As if in solidarity, she reached out and squeezed Crowley’s arm. “She died for a good cause.” 

Crowley gave them both a watery smile and then pulled out his wallet. 

“How much do I owe you?” 

The serving woman shook her head. 

“It’s on the house, duckie,” she said. The demon opened his mouth to protest, but the look on the cook’s face made him shut it again. 

_ This  _ was why he went to greasy spoon cafes, he thought as he walked back to the table.

888888

The meals were, of course, fabulous. The cook had stuck some bacon on the side of Crowley’s plate, so of course he had eaten it as he watched Aziraphale try to spoon beans into his mouth without spilling them all down his shirt. They called out a quick goodbye to the ladies as they walked out, and the demon had slipped twenty quid under one of the plates. He grinned to himself when he heard the cook screech “THAT SON OF A-”. 

The park wasn’t far away, and despite it only being 10 a.m, it was still surprisingly busy. As they approached the entrance, Aziraphale seemed to grow nervous, hiding behind Crowley and trying to grab at his jacket. Crowley sighed and picked him up before opening the heavy metal gate and slipping into the play area. 

“It’s alright, bud,” he said. Aziraphale chewed his lip, anxious as he glanced around the park. “I know it’s all very new, but,” he pointed out the pirate ship climbing frame, where kids were happily throwing themselves down a tall metal slide. “Why don’t you go and try that out, hm? I’ll be here the whole time.” 

“The whole time?” Aziraphale asked nervously. 

“The whole time, I promise.” 

Aziraphale took a moment before nodding. Crowley let him down and watched as he ran off. He leant himself on the metal fence, watching the kid climb up onto the main frame. He was wedged between two mothers. One of them, a woman with a serious-looking business skirt and a severe haircut, turned to him. Her face was turned up a disapproving sneer. 

“ _ Who  _ gets their child to this age and doesn’t take them to a  _ park _ ?” she asked the mother on Crowley’s other side very loudly. The second woman wisely chose not to answer, instead flashing Crowley an apologetic little smile. She was balancing a small baby in her arms as she watched her toddler run around wildly, and was obviously tired: a discreet snap of the fingers, and all of a sudden she was finding fifty pounds in a washing pile that night. 

“I mean,  _ really _ ,” the snotty woman continued. “My Reginald, he simply adores the park, and I’ve heard it’s  _ so  _ good for a child’s development-” 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Crowley cut in. He had a snake-ish grin plastered on his face. His Old Aziraphale would have been so proud of how polite he was being. “I couldn’t help but notice how you were making a few… comments about me and my son.” 

“I-I wasn’t,” the woman stammered, obviously caught red-handed. “I- how dare you cut into my conversation!” 

“I just wanted you to know,” Crowley continued, breezing along like she had never said anything. “He spent almost four months in hospital because of serious injuries from a drunk driver which killed his mother, and then he has had to have various rehabilitation therapies, as well as dealing with other health issues. He’s been begging me to bring him since he could talk, but he’s always been too sick, so,  _ ma’am,  _ perhaps next time you should consider what the other person’s situation may be like before making comments.” 

He took a deep breath, half-expecting applause to begin. It didn’t, but the shocked look on the woman’s face was enough. At least, it was until he heard a thump, a sob and a wail of “Papa!” 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said frostily to the woman. “I have to go and comfort my son.” 

_ Son.  _

Maybe he could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING SOON: the duo visit a pre-school, and a supermarket visit is made. Sounds simple enough, right? When there is an angel and a demon involved, shenanigans often ensue...
> 
> I don't really know why this has got quite such an angsty backstory, but oh well. Please remember to leave comments and kudos, they really make my day!   
> My Twitter is @1Am_M3 and I sometimes post Good Omens stuff, so if you wanna go check it out........  
> Cheerio my dears, hope you're all having a fabulous day and hope you enjoyed!


	5. Anthony J Crowley Hates Socialising (pass it on!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late!!!! I was on holiday last week and my schedule just got messed up! Anyhow, here now, so whoopee!! Hope you enjoy this chapter and sorry if it's shit, the only bit I'm really happy with is the last bit lol

**_2 weeks later_ **

The pre-school Crowley had chosen to attend the open morning of was quite small. It had an Ofsted rating of Outstanding* and was attached to a decent enough primary school, which didn't have too many seedy characters around. It was about a ten minute drive away from the apartment, but that was at the speeds that Crowley drove. 

*In 2001

Right now, they were speeding along the packed streets, weaving their way through the traffic and squeezing into spots that the Bentley should not have physically been able to squeeze through. Crowley was whooping with joy. He  _ loved  _ going fast in the Bentley. Always had done. It calmed him down, made him forget about Heaven and Hell and all of that bullshit. Plus, it was funny to watch Aziraphale squeal and clutch at the dashboard, begging him to slow down and “watch the road, for Heaven’s sake, before you get us discorporated!”. 

At least, he used to. 

When he glanced over, the kid looked utterly terrified. He was clutching at the sides of his carseat, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. 

“You alright, bud?” Crowley shouted over the noise of the engine as he weaved around a bus, barely missing the wing mirror. He laughed as the driver flipped him off. 

“You’re going to hit someone, Papa!” the kid screamed. 

It was just like that. That short sentence propelled Crowley into memories of Armageddon’t, getting lunch, saving Aziraphale from the Nazis in 1941, the first time he’d taken the angel for a drive down some abandoned country lanes… 

He slammed on the brakes, and in the process nearly crashed into a Nissan Micra. He swerved, tyres screeching, and just about managed to stay on the road as he cursed under his breath. 

“Better?” he huffed as they cruised along at fifty, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out. Aziraphale, only just tentatively opening one eye, nodded. 

Crowley sighed. As much as he hated having to drive at a reasonable speed, perhaps it was better to keep within ten or twenty miles of the speed limit when in the city. I mean, the kid was just that: only a kid. As his guardian, Crowley had the responsibility not to accidentally kill him. Sometimes, it was hard enough keeping his own corporation up and running, let alone be responsible for someone else’s! What did they think he was, a superhero? 

To be fair to himself, he hadn’t done too bad a job, he thought as he glanced over at the kid, who was now humming along to  _ I Want to Break Free.  _ The kid was alive and healthy, wasn’t he? Plus, Crowley hadn’t gone completely insane, so score! He’d had the kid for nearly an entire month now, but he didn’t feel like it was getting any easier. Every time something tiny happened, when maybe Aziraphale scraped his elbow on a side or got upset because his favourite television show wasn’t on, Crowley felt like he’d failed as a guardian, as a parental figure. 

As a  _ father.  _

No matter. Right now, he was doing the responsible thing, and forcing himself to leave the house and make small talk with some no doubt repulsive people just so the kid could have an education. See the sacrifices? Exactly. He was a great father figure. 

When they pulled up in the school’s car park, Crowley couldn’t help but notice how small it was. According to the school’s website, they were two hundred and fifty pupils at the school, and the pre-school had up to sixty spaces: thirty for the morning session and thirty for the afternoon. For that, he’d expected a bigger building, perhaps two, but it wasn’t that huge. There were a lot of cars in the car park, though. 

He unstrapped Aziraphale, who jumped quickly out, and they walked together to the reception. The small window was closed, so Crowley rang the bell and waited. 

“Are you nervous, angel?” he asked, mainly to fill the uncomfortable silence. Aziraphale shrugged. 

“A bit,” he replied. Crowley was about to offer some words of encouragement when the window snapped open and a bored-looking man was staring out at them. 

“Name?” he asked gruffly. 

“Anthony Crowley,” he replied, leaning against the side. The man grunted, typed something on his computer and then said, 

“Aziraphale Fell?” 

The little boy gave a cheery wave. 

“Yeah, go straight through,” the man said. “Just send the kid off to play for a bit,” he added to Crowley. “Still expecting a few people, can’t start the tour until they show up.” 

Crowley nodded, speed walking out of there with the kid as fast as he could. His evil sensors were screaming at him that something was up with this guy, and it wasn’t his paycheck. Something smelled fishy about him. He wasn’t sure what, but there was something going on there. He shook it from his mind, deciding that thinking about it was only going to send him into a very dark place. 

They headed left, going down a couple of stairs before turning right and walking through a small curtained area. The door to the pre-school was low, so low that Crowley’s carefully styled messy locks brushed the door frame as they walked through it.

The room was… small. Perhaps  _ compact  _ was a good word to use. All along the sides of the room, underneath tables connected to the wall, were plastic boxes, each neatly labelled with which toys they contained. Many of these boxes, considering that there was twenty-odd kids in the room, were empty, their contents strewn across the room. Children were running around, whooping, screaming, laughing and crying. The lights were bright and harsh, one of them flickering ominously. Secreted in a corner was a tray of lukewarm tea and coffees, and Crowley was glad that he was clutching his own Starbucks flat white in his hand. 

It was, quite literally, Hell on earth. 

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, reminding himself that he was fine, he wasn’t in Hell. He was so lost in trying to keep himself grounded that he didn’t realise that one of the teachers was approaching him until their hand was on his arm. 

He jumped, turning quickly to face them. ‘Them’ turned out to be a ‘she’, who was grinning brightly at him through tired eyes and wrinkled cheeks. She looked to be about forty or so. 

“Hi!” she exclaimed. She was bubbly, too bubbly at half 10 in the morning for Crowley’s liking. 

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, taking a swig of his coffee. God, he was getting too old for this. 

“Names?” 

“Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Fell,” he replied. He saw her nose scrunch up, just for a moment, and he knew that she was going to struggle with the kid’s name. “But he goes by Az, or ‘Zira.” 

She beamed at him again. 

“Feel free to look around,” she told him. “We’ll be starting the tour in about fifteen minutes.” 

Before Crowley could say any more, she had bustled off to stop some kid chewing the head off a toy doll. 

“Alright, bud,” he said a little nervously, kneeling down so he was at eye level with Aziraphale. The kid gave him an anxious look, wringing his hands in front of him. “I’m gonna go over there,” he pointed out the gaggle of parents, many of whom looked utterly exhausted, “alright? You go off and play with the other kids, but if you need me, I’ll be over there.” 

“Yes, Papa,” Aziraphale said shyly before giving him a quick hug and running over to the so-called “Quiet Corner” where, surprise surprise, all the books were kept. 

Crowley watched him for a minute or so, just to make sure he was okay before sauntering over to the makeshift parents’ area. Praying no-one would talk to him, he leant back against the wall, letting out a sigh as he closed his eyes. 

“So: which one’s yours?” 

Damn. 

He opened his eyes again to see a bright-looking redhead standing in front of him. Her husband, a balding, equally as ginger man stood behind her, holding a young girl who looked to be about one or two years old in his arms. 

“Um,” he said, not having expected the questions to come quite as quickly. He shook himself, and pointed to where Aziraphale had his nose buried in a picture book. “Aziraphale, his name is.” 

“Oo, that’s a name you don’t hear very often!” the woman said, clapping her hands in front of her. She turned to her husband, who gave a tired little nod. “He’s very advanced, isn’t he? Only, our Fred, one of our twins, you see, he wasn’t reading properly until he was nearly in Year 1, was he, dear?” 

“No,” the husband murmured. 

“Oh, er, thanks,” Crowley said, taking another desperate gulp of coffee. 

They chatted for another couple of minutes about school opportunities, rising petrol costs* and kids’ TV shows: wholeheartedly, the three of them agreed that  _ The Numberjacks  _ was the creepiest show on television**, especially “that bloody Numbertaker!  _ How  _ that is allowed on children’s television I do not know”. Then their baby started crying and they bid him farewell. 

*Crowley muddled his way through that one by letting the woman rant and agreeing that it was an atrocity, despite not having bought petrol since 1967 

**I dare you to YouTube “numberjacks numbertaker theme song”. I DARE YOU

Almost immediately, Crowley was engulfed by a gaggle of eager parents, many of whom had been discreetly listening to Crowley tell the woman and her husband how advanced Aziraphale’s reading and writing was. They all wanted tips on how to maximise their child’s potential, and Crowley was feeling rather pressured. Despite his whole “cool as a cucumber” vibe, he really didn’t like people that much. He’d once slept for an entire century just to avoid them! The Old Aziraphale, on the other hand, he’d been a right people person. Surprising, I know. When they were out together, people often used to assume that Crowley was the one dragging Aziraphale out for some much-needed socialisation, but very often it was the other way around. 

Aziraphale, however, actually ended up coming to his rescue. He’d been in the middle of a stammering explanation of how he was encouraging the kid’s natural creativity by supplying him with paper and pencils and various other art supplies when he’d heard a small whimper and felt a weight attach itself to his leg. 

“Papa?” the weight snivelled. 

Crowley reached down and picked the kid up, balancing him expertly on his hip whilst still facing him. 

“What’s up, Az?” he asked. The parents around him began to “oo” and “aww”. 

“Got scared,” Aziraphale murmured quietly, his big blue eyes full of tears. “Couldn’t see you and I thought you’d gone.” 

“I’m right here,” Crowley replied. “I’m never going to leave you, angel. Never. Capisce?” 

“Capisce,” Aziraphale giggled. Crowley laughed a little, kissing his forehead. 

“You wanna go play with the other kids?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to burrow into Crowley’s neck. 

“Wanna stay here with you, Papa.” 

“That’s alright,” the demon murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

“You have such a good and close relationship with your son,” someone piped up from the back of the group. “Do you think it’ll be difficult not just for him, but for you as well when he starts going to school?” 

Wow. That was a bombshell question he hadn’t been expecting. He opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it because he couldn’t think of an answer. 

“Um…” he said, trying to bide himself time whilst his brain kicked into gear. “Well, er, I suppose it will be, um, different to be in an empty flat, especially since, um, my wife…” 

It seemed to click in everyone’s brains then. They remembered articles, news segments, websites, why this man and his kid looked so familiar. There were a few gasps, and hands flew to mouths and partners quicker than anything Crowley had seen before. Luckily, he was saved from further pity when the bubbly teacher bustled over and announced that it was time for the tour to commence. Crowley turned to put Aziraphale down, but when he looked at him, the boy was fast asleep against his shoulder. 

Smiling, he gently patted the kid’s curls and let him sleep. 

888888

By the time the tour of the school was over, Crowley’s arms  _ hurt.  _

Aziraphale, of course, the little bugger had been asleep the entire way round. Bloody typical. Not that it mattered, of course. The teachers didn’t seem to mind, remarking that he would be surprised how often kids fall asleep during these things. Like he’d been embarrassed! The demon scoffed at the very thought. He’d never,  _ ever  _ be ashamed or embarrassed by Aziraphale. The kid was a masterpiece! Not like that, you understand. He was just so goddamn proud of the kid. 

Aziraphale woke up when Crowley was strapping him into his carseat. He yawned, nose scrunching adorably. 

“Morning,” Crowley remarked as he did up the last buckle. “Have a nice nap?” 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale mumbled, yawning again as he sluggishly rubbed his eyes. “‘M hungry, Papa.” 

Crowley quickly tried to remember what food they had in the kitchen back in the flat. All that sprung to mind was half a packet of Oreos and an out-of-date tin of mince. They couldn’t possibly eat out  _ again,  _ because they’d been doing that for nearly a week now. And he couldn’t exactly miracle the cupboards full, could he? The kid would notice, and, knowing him, he’d blab to someone, then Crowley would have to try and explain  _ that  _ away. 

“We’ve got to go to the supermarket, buddy,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“Out of food,” Crowley replied as he slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. “We can’t exactly survive off air, can we?”*

*Actually, they could, but that was besides the point. 

The radio blasted  _ ‘Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy’  _ the entire way to the Big Tesco. Crowley tried to skip it a few times, but that only increased the volume. Bloody Bentley. The car had a mind of its own.  _ Always has done,  _ Crowley thought with a hint of pride,  _ I raised her well.  _

Aziraphale spent the whole ride gazing out of the window, murmuring away to himself. Crowley could barely hear him over the roar of the engine and the blast of the stereo, but from what he heard it sounded like the kid was inventing a nonsensical story for himself based on the people and the things he saw around him. The demon was very impressed, and allowed himself to smile at the kid. He was going to be good at school.

The supermarket wasn't as busy as Crowley would have thought. Then again, it was midday on a Wednesday in October. Most people were either at work or at school. 

Crowley had never worked for a living. Oh, he'd tried, of course, but he'd never been able to find anything that he didn't find mind-numbingly boring. He'd tried obvious evil things back when he was working for Hell, but they always turned his stomach far too much. Executioner was one that particularly sprung to mind. He'd barely lasted two hours before he had to high-tail it out of there.  _ That  _ had been a fun one to explain to Beezlebub. 

In fact, he'd got so bored over the years that he'd procured several degrees, ranging from a Bachelors in astrophysics to a Masters in Queer Studies. His credentials were shockingly good, so Crowley was pretty sure that he could easily get any job he wanted. It's not that he never wanted a job, not that he was lazy. He'd just never found something that suited  _ him.  _

Fatherhood, though, he thought as he looked over at the kid, who was breathing on the glass of the Bentley's window and drawing smiley faces on it. That suited him. He could manage with comforting him when he was crying, teaching him how to make paper aeroplanes, taking him to school, generally making sure he grew up to be a happy and healthy adult. The Bentley, that had been a test. He'd kept her in tip top condition for ninety years, hadn't he? 

"Right," he said after he had pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine, turning to Aziraphale with a serious look on his face. "You can have one treat after we've finished, but only if you're good all the way round." 

Aziraphale smiled up at him, nodding. "Anything you want, amounting up to ten pounds." 

" _ Anything _ ?" Aziraphale asked, awe in his voice. 

"Anything." 

The young angel smiled broadly up at Crowley, who couldn't help but smile back. Aziraphale slipped his small hand into the demon's and started to drag him towards the entrance. 

"Woah, woah, slow down!" Crowley laughed, if a little nervously, digging his heels into the ground just before they got to the zebra crossing. It was a good thing he did, too, as a Range Rover sped past them, clearly way over the speed limit. The demon let out a sigh of relief before reaching down and picking Aziraphale up, balancing him on his hip. “Be  _ careful, _ ” he admonished gently. “Car parks are dangerous.” 

“Sorry, Papa,” Aziraphale said, his eyes wide and teary. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley said. “Just remember for next time, okay?” 

Aziraphale nodded, snuggling into Crowley’s shoulder. 

They crossed the road quickly, the demon looking left and right far too many times to be healthy. Crowley was about to grab a regular trolley when he remembered the state of his joints after the morning’s escapades and made sure to get the last one with a kiddie seat in it. Glancing around the car park as he eased Aziraphale into the seat and did up the buckle, he let out a shaky sigh when he saw that most of the cars consisted of SUVs, minivans or people carriers. This was going to be an… interesting shopping trip to say the least. 

You see, Crowley had only been to a supermarket once or twice before. Once in 1992 in New York for the introduction of the self-checkout*, and once with Warlock when the little boy would not shut  _ up  _ about getting banana bubblegum and he was significantly hung over from the night before. Other than that, if he wanted food he’d either order in, go out to dinner or miracle it into existence. What did normal people even buy on their normal shopping trips?

*Crowley had had a lot to do with the weight sensors on supermarket self-checkouts, and also the voice overs as they became more popular. He’d been rather proud of his creation at the time, and he’d wanted to see it through

He huffed as he pressed the button on the elevator, giving the kid a quick boop on the nose to keep him entertained. Sure enough, he was rewarded with a high-pitched, joy-filled giggle and a small hand pawing at his own larger one. 

“Just the essentials…” he murmured to himself over the  _ ding  _ of the elevator. “Bread, milk, cereal, pasta, marshmallows- why did I say marshmallows- sauce, vegetables,” (he made a face as he said this) “biscuits, chips…”

It soon turned out that the  _ “essentials” _ list was very long list, that actually contained many non-essential items because Crowley kept getting distracted as he was making it, not only by Aziraphale, who was tugging at his makeshift scarf-like thing and trying to whisper to him, but by displays and other shoppers’ baskets. When they got out of the elevator, Crowley spied a small basket with a sign that read  _ “Free Fruit”  _ and decided to take advantage. He sped over to it, picking up an apple* and handing it to the kid. 

*No, the irony was not lost on him, either

“Right, be careful with that,” he warned. “Make sure you chew it, okay?” 

Aziraphale would have nodded, but he was too busy trying to figure out where to bite into first. 

The next hour or so was eventful. And mentally scarring. And emotionally draining. In just sixty short, but not short enough minutes, Crowley had gotten into an argument with some mum over the last packet of fish fingers*, had a small mental breakdown about how many different types of bloody potatoes there were much to Aziraphale’s amusement, seen several children have meltdowns because their parents refused to buy them an expensive toy or piece of technology, and generally failed in finding most of the stuff he needed.

*This had escalated into the woman’s scumbag boyfriend coming over and trying to threaten Crowley, but he was swiftly put off when the demon carefully gave him a flash of the serpent eyes

Currently, he was standing in the bread aisle, scratching his head over the sheer amount of bread in front of him. 

“What do we normally get?” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. He turned desperately to Aziraphale, who was still working away on his apple. “Any idea, bud?” 

“It has a gween packet, Papa,” the kid replied without looking up. 

“Green packet, right…” Crowley mumbled. He grabbed the first green packet he saw and threw it into the trolley. “I think that’s the last thing we need.” 

Aziraphale looked up at that, eyes shining. 

“Do I get my treat now, Papa?” 

Crowley gulped, feeling a little guilty. He’d forgotten about that. He nodded, plastering on a smile despite his own discomfort. Even with the sunglasses, the supermarket lights were harsh and the air conditioning seemed to be turned up to maximum, and Crowley knew that blankets and a movie would be required when they got home. 

“Of course, angel,” he said. “What do you want?” 

The kid thought for a moment, surveying the products around him. They didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he turned his gaze to Crowley. 

“Can we get ice cream, Papa?” he asked. 

“Course,” Crowley replied. “What flavour?” 

“Peanut butter!” Aziraphale shouted without a moment’s hesitation. Crowley’s instincts kicked in and he shushed him. 

“Indoor voice,” he said. The young angel nodded reverently. “But yes, we can get peanut butter ice cream.” 

Aziraphale cheered far louder than was necessary, but Crowley decided not to say anything this time. 

888888

Crowley was watching the Bake Off when the message came through. 

He’d put Aziraphale to bed nearly an hour and a half ago, after reading him the first chapter of the first Harry Potter. It was one of the books that he remembered the Old Aziraphale loving. On the night of the release of the final installment of the series, Crowley distinctly remembered running into Aziraphale, or at least into his small blue tent, outside of a Waterstone’s. It seemed the kid was going to love the series just as much, as he had begged Crowley to read him just one more chapter. The demon had said no, but had promised to read some more the next night. 

So: Bake Off. Technically speaking, he wasn’t watching the Bake Off: he was watching the adverts. Well, he wasn’t really watching the adverts: he was vaguely wondering how much of a disaster he would be on the show. He barely even heard the changing of the channels, but he felt his blood turn to ice when he heard a familiar buzzing voice say, 

“Hello traitor.” 

Crowley gulped, sitting up a little straighter on the plush sofa whilst trying to surreptitiously hide the tartan blanket* that he was lying under. 

*It had been left in the flat by the Old Aziraphale a couple of weeks after Armageddidn’t, and by some miracle still retained the scent of old books and hot cocoa and that new aftershave his barber had suggested

“Beezlebub,” he said, his speech stilted and oddly formal. 

“Let’zz make this quick,” Beezlebub said, seemingly bored with the entire situation. They were sat on top of a car, which was speeding dangerously around a ravine. “Anthony J Crowley, formerly known azz the demon Crowley, formerly known azz Crawley, your employment with with Hell is officially terminated.” 

“Terminated!?” Crowley exclaimed before remembering that Aziraphale was asleep in the next room and lowering his voice. “What d’you mean terminated?” 

Beezlebub rolled their eyes. 

“It meanzz-” they paused, taking a deep breath through their nose. “It means that you no longer work for uzz. We’re cutting tiezz with you, Crowley.” 

“You-you can’t do that,” Crowley said a little smugly. “It’s not like I can Fall again, is it?” 

“But you can keep you powerzz,” Beezlebub continued, apparently unaware that Crowley had ever spoken. They said this through gritted teeth. “I have… orderzzz.” 

“Great,” Crowley said. “Good to know, maybe we can meet up for a barbeque…?” 

But Beezlebub was gone, the normal adverts restored. Crowley glanced around the flat once again as he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His eyes drifted to the baby monitor and his heart seized. Still clutching the tartan blanket in one hand, he jumped up and ran to the kid’s room. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before opening the door. 

Aziraphale was fast asleep, his favourite cream-and-tartan teddy bear tucked under one arm. Crowley could just about make out the dinosaurs on his bedspread by the light of the nightlight, and the stars on the ceiling were glowing away. Crowley sighed in relief, coming quietly into the room and kneeling by the bed. Reaching over, he pressed a soft kiss to the kid’s forehead. 

Aziraphale didn’t stir. He just kept sleeping. 

Crowley watched him quietly in a non-creepy, adoring way for another few minutes before he got up to go. When he got to the door, he had thought and turned back, blanket still in hand. He raised it to his face and sniffed deeply. Memories overwhelmed him for a moment. Memories he could never have back. He had to let it go. He had to. Tears in his eyes, Crowley gave the blanket one last sniff before draping it over the kid, pressing another small kiss to his forehead before going to the door and closing it gently. 

And Crowley cried. He leant against that door and he cried. He cried for everything he’d lost, for everything he’d never be able to have again, for everything that had been cruelly taken from him. 

But he also cried for what he’d been given. He cried for his freedom, for the beautiful month he’d had, for the little goddamn miracle that was lying sound asleep behind the door he was leaning against. 

He cried for  _ his son.  _

And that night, it was like the universe cried with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! And yes, I know, shameless Harry Potter cameo lol. Hope you enjoyed, next chapter should be up in about a week or so, if all goes to plan. Please leave comments and kudos, it really makes my day!! xx
> 
> COMING SOON: Aziraphale's third birthday brings up an opportunity for some Father-Son bonding time!


	6. Birthday Bonanza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG   
> I was on holiday, and then I went back to school. Not gonna lie, school has been crazy. I've just started Year 11, and the pressure is insane. I have my first round of mocks in about 5 weeks, so that's vaguely terrifying. I promise I'll try to update as regularly as I can, though. I really hope this chapter makes up for my absence <3

**_A few days later- 21st of October_ **

When he was caring for Warlock as Nanny Ashtoreth, Crowley had somehow found himself in charge of planning and executing the boy’s birthday parties. It was a job that, over time, he gradually came to love. When Warlock had been younger, he'd had almost full reign over the parties, and he'd found the whole affair to be rather freeing. Much to his dismay, he found he quite enjoyed organising gazebos, buying presents and icing various cakes that had been made by the cook. 

He had been planning to do a similar thing for Aziraphale's very first birthday with him. Well, it wasn't his  _ first  _ birthday, technically, it was his third, but you know what he meant. After the open morning at the pre-school, Crowley had obtained the numbers of a few of the parents, so he could always invite them and their offspring. He still had his contact at the gazebo place, and he could always hire a bouncy castle. Really, it was all perfectly planned. 

Or, at least it was until Crowley took one look at Aziraphale and decided that all he really wanted was to spend the day just the two of them. 

It was true that they'd been spending almost every day together as far. It was also true that Crowley had been solidly avoiding dealing with or even thinking about the Old Aziraphale, except for at 2 a.m when the nightmares and the flames came to haunt him. 

Truly, though, it was a fact that Crowley had taken to parenting to… I don't know, whatever it is that takes to water. He was enjoying being a father immensely. He’d even been learning how to cook! He’d recently graduated from ready meals and frozen food you stuck in the oven for twenty minutes to cooking pasta and trying out recipes he’d found online. Crowley had even tried to make his own pasta sauce yesterday! Yes, when he’d tried to puree the tomatoes because Aziraphale would refuse to eat it if it had any lumps in it the sauce had gone all over him, Aziraphale (who was sitting on the side watching his father with fascination) the backsplash tiles and the kitchen floor, and yes he had burned the garlic, but what was left of the sauce was surprisingly nice. 

Another thing he’d been learning when Aziraphale had been in bed was crepes. Usually by about midnight there would be about twenty-five burned and failed attempts in the bin, but over the past few days he’d been getting better and better. It was still hit-and-miss, but he was managing one good crepe for every two he messed up. Tonight, though, he was going to be practising until he fell asleep or the sun came up: whichever came first. 

“You excited for tomorrow, bud?” Crowley asked as he helped Aziraphale put his pyjama top back on so it wasn’t backwards. 

“Yes yes yes!” Aziraphale squealed, jumping up and down and nearly jeopardising any chance of his top ever going on. “Are we going to have cake?” 

“Yes, there will be cake,” Crowley chuckled. 

“Are we going to go out?” 

“If you want to.” 

“Will I get presents?” 

Crowley stopped short. 

Presents. 

_ Presents.  _

How could he have forgotten the fucking presents!? Out of all of the things be could have forgotten, presents was the worst one.  _ Presents!!  _ The kid had been politely asking for all sorts of things for the past two weeks, and Crowley had dutifully promised that he would get each and every one of them. Now, he had about twelve hours to go and he had nothing! Nothing at all! It was too late to Amazon Prime it all, so it was looking increasingly more likely that he was going to have to miracle it. He suppressed a groan. He hated having to do big miracles like that. They always tired him out. Whatever. Looks like crepe practice was going out of the window. 

“Yes, of course you’ll get presents,” Crowley finally replied. 

Aziraphale squealed with delight, and Crowley was reminded all over again why he would do anything for this kid. 

888888

When it came to the next morning, Crowley had never been more glad that he had gone to bed early. 

After putting Aziraphale to bed, Crowley had gone to the living room and miracled up all the presents he’d promised the kid, plus a few more he knew that he wanted. Then there had been decorations, balloons, banners… The cake he could pick up during the day, and Someone knows he already had  _ more  _ than enough crepe ingredients. All of that had really taken it out of him because he wasn’t used to doing so many miracles anymore. He used to miracle his clothes into being, but now he had a closet full of clothes* and shoes. All of the small miracles that used to run his daily life had all but disappeared, save for those he used at the end of every week to clean the apartment. Combine the energy expelled for the now infrequent and often big miracles, and running around after a hyperactive toddler and it was a recipe for exhaustion. 

*It was mostly the same outfit over and over again, but there were a few different items, most notably his signed Queen t-shirt

On the morning of Aziraphale’s third birthday, Crowley found himself very suddenly awoken at half past five in the morning by a screeching toddler jumping on top of him. He made a rather strangled sound, his eyes shooting open. Scrambling for his sunglasses, he jammed them almost painfully onto his face before sitting up and giving the kid a bright smile. 

“Happy birthday angel,” he said, grinning. 

Aziraphale was so excited that he was bouncing up and down on the bed, a huge smile on his face. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed, his blond curls flopping into his eyes a little. 

"I'm three, Papa!" the young angel yelled, holding up three little chubby fingers. 

"I know you are, bud," Crowley chuckled, ruffling the kid's hair. Aziraphale launched himself from where he was sitting on the bed into Crowley's lap, giggling as he wrapped his tiny arms around the demon's thin frame. 

"I wanna go to the zoo, Papa," he said. Crowley nodded dutifully, getting up and balancing the kid on his hip as he did so. 

"Oh yeah?" the demon replied in a slightly amused tone of voice. "What do you want to see there, then?" 

"A lion!" Aziraphale cried, roaring deeply as he did so. "And penguins! And an orangutan!" 

Now, the dear reader could be forgiven for reading that last animal as "o-rang-u-tan". This is normally how the word is pronounced, I will grant you that. However, it is important to note that the angel currently had the brain of a three-year-old, and so the word was subsequently pronounced "orange-u-tan". 

It took all of Crowley's self-control not to burst out laughing. No doubt if he could have recorded it, he would have. It would make great teasing material when the kid was older. 

"Orangutan," he corrected gently. "But yes, we can see all of those if you want." 

"Can we feed the ducks as well?" Aziraphale blurted. 

"Whatever you want, angel. It's your birthday." 

The kid's face took on a scheming look, and Crowley had a bit of moment of panic. 

"Then can I have Nutella  _ and  _ strawberries  _ and  _ cream on crepes for breakfast?" the young angel asked. Crowley let out a sigh of relief. He'd prepared for this. 

"Absolutely not," he said in a fake serious tone. Aziraphale's face dropped. "We've got to have presents first." 

Never before had Crowley seen such unbridled joy on someone's face. The kid let out a small squeak, bouncing from one foot to the other in an effort to contain his excitement. Breaking away from the demon, he sprinted into the living room. Chuckling as he heard the gasp that followed, Crowley went in after him. 

Aziraphale was standing next to a pile of presents almost as high as his head, his mouth open in shock and awe. He turned back to Crowley. 

“Where am I supposed to start, Papa?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Wherever you want,” Crowley replied simply. 

Aziraphale grinned and reached for the biggest present of the pile. 

888888

By the time they left the house, it was nearly half past nine. Once Aziraphale had opened all of his presents, they’d had crepes and Crolwey had managed not to burn them too much. And that was first time! He’d been just a little proud of himself, grinning to himself as he watched the slow destruction of his tablecloth by Nutella. Aziraphale had decided that he simply  _ had  _ to wear his brand new outfit: a replica of the Old Aziraphale’s suit, sans the outer jacket and with added suspenders. Crowley couldn’t help but think how the Old Aziraphale would have been bursting with pride as he slowly and carefully tied the bow tie before fixing a birthday badge to the tiny waistcoat. 

“There we are,” he said softly, patting the bow tie and kissing the kid’s forehead. “All done.” 

Aziraphale beamed at him, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Do I look nice, Papa?” he asked somewhat anxiously. 

“Of course you do,” Crowley said. “You look lovely, angel.” 

That was enough for the toddler, who grabbed his backpack from the sofa and shoved his new pencils and notebook into it, before running into his bedroom with the open bag. Crowley had a sinking feeling that he was going to be the one who was going to end up carrying that bag. 

The first thing the pair noted when they walked out of the apartment building was that it was unseasonably warm for October. The sun was beating down on them, and Crowley’s cold-blooded snakey instincts instantly sighed with relief. The demon was glad he’d put suncream and water in the bag now. 

Getting Aziraphale strapped into his carseat in the Bentley was always a challenge, but it seemed to be an impossible task today. Luckily, they were only twelve minutes away, so despite the fact Crowley wasted ten minutes with the last stupid  _ fucking  _ buckle they were still fifteen minutes early. 

There was a lovely woman at the gates, and she immediately spotted the birthday badge on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Smiling, she handed Crowley a small voucher and told him to hand it into the penguin enclosure before wishing Aziraphale a happy birthday and letting them through into the surprisingly busy car park. 

Whether it was the amount of people, or the noise of all the cars, but Aziraphale seemed to freeze up the moment they got out of the car. He clutched at Crowley’s hand, keeping as close to the demon as he could as they walked towards the entrance. Just before they could walk in, he tugged at his father’s hand. 

“I’m nervous, Papa,” he said in a small voice when Crowley looked down. 

The demon swept the young angel up in his arms. Aziraphale seemed to relax then, the physical contact reassuring him. 

“You’re alright, I promise,” Crowley said quietly, walking into the entrance to the zoo. There was the vast gift shop, and a cafe which opened up into an outdoor area with ticket booths. The lines for these were already long, despite the fact that they weren’t to open for another quarter of an hour. Suppressing a sigh, Crowley picked the line that looked the smallest and joined it. “What do you want to go and see then, bud?” 

“Can we see snakes?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley’s heart genuinely skipped a beat. 

“Yeah, course.” 

“Lions?”

“Yep.” 

“Monkeys?” 

“If you want to.” 

“Penguins?” 

This went on for rather a long time, with Aziraphale listing every animal he could and Crowley tiredly answering that yes, he could see them. He’d been planning to take the kid to the Natural History Museum, but it was looking increasingly likely that they were going to be spending the whole day at the zoo. The young angel didn’t seem to mind, though, any trace of nervousness gone from his shining eyes as he babbled away in Crowley’s ear. His chatter was relentless, even when they managed to get up to the ticket window. The demon couldn’t even hear what the bored teenager behind the glass was saying. 

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. “Just be quiet for a minute, alright? Just whilst I get the tickets.” 

Aziraphale fell silent, but he didn’t look happy about it. 

Crowley paid the extortionately high fee with raised eyebrows. They received two tickets and a brochure, detailing some of the place’s history, their animals and exhibits, and where these could be found on a large fold-up map. A small Agreement was formed between father and son: Aziraphale was promised that he would be carried on Crowley’s shoulders for the latter part of the day if he walked for now. Somehow, the kid managed to wrangle a promise of a toy from the gift shop into the agreement as well. Crowley told himself that it was because it was the kid’s birthday*. 

*Spoiler alert: it wasn’t 

Clutching the voucher the woman at the gates had given them, the pair headed towards the penguin enclosure. 

“Where do penguins come from?” Aziraphale asked as they wove around a small family who were having a blazing argument about something or other. 

Crowley stopped short. The logical answer, of course, would have been  _ “Antarctica” _ , but we have already established that Crowley is not a very logical creature. At that moment, he trawling back through his faded memory of the days before the Fall, trying to remember who had been put on animal duty. He was pretty sure whoever invented the penguin had to be one of the Fallen. I mean, they had wings, but they couldn’t fly. Seemed like the kind of petty thing someone in Hell would do.

“Er…” the demon said, glancing around. Luckily, he spotted the penguin enclosure and decided to use it as his saving grace. “There, look. Penguin enclosure. Prob’ly be on a sign there.” 

He then wished he hadn’t said that, because Aziraphale proceeded to grab his hand and speed all the way over there, and he had a surprisingly strong grip for a three year old. Crowley couldn’t help but smile to himself. Curiosity. Yet another trait that had carried across. 

Sadly, there was barely anyone at the penguin enclosure. Personally, Crowley had always quite liked penguins. He’d been in the same compartment as them on the Ark, and he’d found them to be rather amiable creatures. One of the toddlers he’d smuggled on had particularly fond of them, claiming that the male Emperor penguin was her best friend. The penguin hadn’t seemed too bothered about the way she used to hang off him. It was a good little enclosure as well, with a viewing window so little kids could watch the penguins swimming past. Aziraphale, of course, immediately went over to this window, crouching down and watching with avid fascination. Crowley leant against the damp white stone wall and watched the shimmering surface of the water.    
  


The keeper was a young guy, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three. He had chestnut hair, falling in waves over his forehead. He had piercing green eyes, almost the same colour that the reflections of the tank made the water look like. Crowley couldn’t deny that he was gorgeous, and he found himself staring a little bit before he scolded himself, looking down at Aziraphale. It was too soon. A month wasn’t enough. A month didn’t erase six thousand years of pining. 

“Hey, can I help you?” 

Oh sweet Jesus, even his voice was hot. Deep and dark and rich, a bit like an exquisite chocolate mousse. Crowley gulped, managing to look up at him without completely losing his mind. 

“Uh…” he mumbled. The keeper laughed, smooth and sweet. Crowley could practically feel the blush creeping up his neck. 

“I just saw the voucher in your hand, that’s all,” the keeper said. The demon looked down, remembering the reason why they were here in the first place. 

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, smiling a little and holding the voucher out. “The woman on the car park told us to give it in here, and you’d tell us what to do?” 

The man took the voucher and looked it over. He grinned, a wide grin showing off his pearly white teeth. 

“It’s for your kid to be able to help feed the penguins,” he explained. “We do it for kids’ birthdays, usually.” 

“Yeah, it’s his birthday today,” Crowley replied. “Did you hear that, Az?”

The young angel looked up at him and the keeper expectantly. 

“Hear what, Papa?” he asked. 

“You get to feed the penguins, bud!” Crowley said. It took a moment, but then Aziraphale smiled widely and threw himself at the demon. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed. 

“You shouldn’t be thanking me, angel, you should be thanking the nice man,” the demon said somewhat uncomfortably. 

“Thank you nice man!” Aziraphale chirruped. 

“No problem,” the keeper chuckled. He turned back to Crowley. “Just be back here by half 12. Feeding starts at one, but debriefs and all.” 

“We’ll be here,” Crowley promised. For good measure, he took his phone out and set an alarm. The keeper smiled again. 

“Hope you have a great day, guys.” 

And he was gone. Crowley let out a shaky breath, letting Aziraphale take his hand. 

“Where do you want to go, bud?” he asked.  _ Get back into the right mindset,  _ he thought.  _ Don’t go getting attached now.  _

“I wanna see the snakes!” 

888888

The reptile was beautifully warm. Crowley could practically feel the scales popping up on his back the minute they stepped into the low-lit enclosure area. All around them were spacious tanks with all types of reptiles. The pair walked over to look at the boa constrictors. It was fast asleep, curled up in a tight coil underneath a heat lamp. Crowley couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. 

“It’s just like in Harry Potter,” Aziraphale gasped, pressing his face up against the glass. He looked up at Crowley. “Can you talk to them, Papa?” 

“I’m not sure,” Crowley said, smirking like a snake. “Let’s have a go, shall we?” 

Pursing his lips, he quickly performed the metamorphosis his tongue before letting out a small hiss. The snake in the cabinet lazily opened one eye, flicking its tongue back. Aziraphale let out a small squeak. 

“You’re  _ magic,  _ Papa!” the young angel whispered. Crowley grinned. 

“In ways you can’t imagine, angel.” 

There was a moment of crackling electricity before the atmosphere returned to normal. 

“I’m gonna go look at the crocodiles, Papa,” Aziraphale announced, running towards the enclosure before Crowley could say or do anything to stop him. 

“Stay within sight!” he called after him before turning back to the snake. 

It had come up to the window now, and was looking inquisitively at Crowley. The demon glanced at the snake’s information plaque: apparently she was called Talula, meaning  _ ‘leaping water’.  _ She’d been bred in captivity. 

_ Hey girl,  _ Crowley hissed. 

_ Hey,  _ Talula replied. 

_ Guess you don’t get out much,  _ the demon said as a way of conversation, leaning against the barrier attached to the wall.  _ That’s harsh.  _

_ Tell me about it,  _ Talula sighed. Well, as much as a snake could sigh.  _ Wait a second… how are we talking? You're a human.  _

_ Am I?  _ Crowley smirked, sliding his sunglasses down. 

Talula visibly recoiled, baring her fangs and spitting at the glass. Crowley hurriedly put his glasses back up. 

_ Sorry,  _ he hissed.  _ Forgot how much it freaks people out.  _

But the snake wasn't having any of it. She slithered away to the very darkest corner of the tank, curling up until Crowley could barely see her. He sighed.  _ Best get Az and get a move on.  _

When he turned around, Aziraphale was gone. 

888888

The crocodiles were undeniably fascinating, thought Aziraphale. Or at least they would have been if they hadn't been asleep. 

The small boy craned his neck, standing on his tip toes in an attempt to see a little better. No, they seemed to be fast asleep at the edge of the water, their breath causing a steady ripple to spread out over the water. Aziraphale sighed frustratedly. The snake had woken up for his Papa! Why wouldn't the crocodiles wake up for him? 

Dejected, he slunk away from the crocodiles, looking over towards his Papa. He was leant against the glass, seemingly deep in conversation with the snake. Papa had told him not to go too far: was the spider enclosure too far? Surely it would be okay, wouldn't it? Yes, of course it would. 

Happy as ever, Aziraphale skipped off into the next corridor. 

888888

Crowley was panicking. 

Two minutes ago. He'd seen the kid not two minutes ago. He'd been safe and healthy and looking at crocodiles. For two minutes, Crowley had turned his back and now Aziraphale was gone. 

His heart pounding, he rushed over the crocodile exhibit, pushing kids and adults alike out of the way to get the front. He got a few dirty looks and a couple of pointed looks, but he didn’t care. The moment he got to the front, his heart sank. No trademark white curly hair, no bowtie-wearing three year old in site. 

He swore, and then ran into the next corridor in an attempt to find the kid. 

888888

The spiders had been quite boring too. Far too many legs, far too hairy for Aziraphale’s liking. He’d gotten frightened the minute one of them moved, and had run out of that particular corridor. Really, he just wanted to see the snake that his Papa had been talking to again. He’d liked that snake. 

When he got out into the main entrance area, however, his Papa was nowhere to be seen. He’d disappeared from by the snake’s cabinet, and Aziraphale couldn’t seem him anywhere else. Instantly, a panic seized the young boy. His bottom lip began to tremble and he could feel tears forming at the edges of his eyes. Sniffing deeply, he pulled himself together. Someone had to be able to help him. Surely? 

For Aziraphale, that “someone” ended up being the first adults he saw. They were an older couple, maybe sixty or so. It was their first date out in nearly five years, and somewhere where they used to bring their children when they were little. The last thing they had been expecting was a small child to come up to them. 

The old lady felt a tug on the sleeve of her jacket and looked down, ready to scold whoever was trying to steal her purse. Instead, she saw a teary looking little boy with shining blue eyes. She tapped her husband on the shoulder. He turned, and then did a similar thing to his wife. Being the more mobile of the two, he crouched down to the boy’s level. 

“Hello there, young man,” he said kindly. “Are you alright?” 

“I’ve lost my Papa,” the boy said in a small, frightened voice. “I don’t know where he’s gone.” 

The man looked up at his wife and gave her a look. She raised her eyebrows at him before lowering herself down carefully to kneel in front of the boy. 

“What’s your name, dearie?” she asked. 

“Aziraphale,” the boy sniffed. 

“That’s a very nice name,” she said. “What does your Papa look like?” 

“He has very red hair,” Aziraphale replied. “And sunglasses. And he has a tattoo,” he gestured to the sideburn area, “right here. It’s a snake!” 

“Do you like snakes, dearie?” the woman asked whilst her husband got up and went off in search of the boy’s father. Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, a smile growing on his face. 

“My Papa can talk to snakes!” the boy exclaimed. The woman couldn’t help but smile warmly at the kid. 

“When did you last see your Papa?” she said, with the greatest wish in the world that this little boy would end up safe. She didn’t know why: she just did. Aziraphale pointed to the snake enclosure. 

“Just there, not very long ago,” he said. “He-” 

“Aziraphale!” 

The woman turned around to see her husband standing next to someone who vaguely resembled a rockstar. Said rockstar looked rather harried, and was looking at Aziraphale with wide, scared eyes*. Ah, she thought. This must be the father. 

*Or at least, she thought so. She couldn’t see behind the glasses

“Papa!” Aziraphale shouted, running over to his father and tackling him in a hug. 

“Oh God, never run off again,” Crowley begged, hugging him tightly. Aziraphale nodded into his legs. The demon looked up to the kind old couple. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how worried I was about him.” 

“Oh, it’s no worry,” the woman said. “We know how difficult they are.” 

There was at least another ten minutes of profuse thanking on Crowley’s part, before the couple announced that they had to be getting on. They waved the two off before heading out towards the ape enclosures. Crowley breathed a small sigh of relief. 

“So, how about those penguins?” 

888888

All in all, the penguin feeding had gone well. Aziraphale had loved meeting all of the keepers and being able to get up close with the animals even if he did feel a bit intimidated by the amount of people watching, and Crowley had managed not to discorporate whilst talking to the handsome keeper. After that, they’d gone round and seen all of the animals. Crowley had gotten spat on by a llama, and it had made Aziraphale laugh no end. The kid had then chosen an Amur Leopard toy from the gift shop, and then they’d headed out to the Bentley. 

They were now sitting in a fairly nice Italian restaurant, who had been surprisingly receptive to the young boy. It was a family-run restaurant, who truly spoiled the young boy as soon as they knew it was his birthday, allowing him to choose whatever he liked off the menu and promising to cook it specially themselves. 

As he watched Aziraphale from the opposite side of the table, Crowley suddenly found himself thinking about the very first time he’d taken Aziraphale out to dinner. 

**_Rome, 41 AD_ **

_ “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”  _

_ Aziraphale’s eyebrows just about travelled up to his hairline as Crowley took another sip of his drink. The angel couldn’t imagine never having eaten an oyster!  _

_ “Oh, well, let me tempt you-”  _

_ The look of disbelief on Crowley’s face as he turned to him made Aziraphale stop in his tracks.  _

_ “Oh, no,” he said somewhat regretfully. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”  _

_ Crowley smirked, setting down his cup and fully turning to Aziraphale.  _

_ “Well then, angel,” he purred. “Can I tempt you to some oysters?”  _

_ The smile on the angel’s face was enough for Crowley.  _

_ They walked through the streets of Ancient Rome, talking away. Aziraphale, a little wine drunk, was giggling at some stupid anecdote that the demon was telling him when they arrived at the restaurant. It was packed, but that was nothing a quick click of the fingers couldn’t fix. Not long after, they were seated and being served.  _

_ “You know, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he sipped his wine. “I have been wondering what you’ve been getting up to these past few years. What, with Yeshua back up in Head Office and all. I know you liked him really.”  _

_ “I never liked him,” Crowley argued, gulping down his own wine. “I just said he seemed very bright.”  _

_ “That means you like him, my dear.” _

_ Crowley glowered, but he didn’t have the energy or the time to argue, as right at that moment their oysters came.  _

_ To the demon, they appeared to be grey gloopy globules of goo. He scrunched his nose up, unsure of where to start.  _

_ “Angel, how the heaven am I supposed to eat these?” he asked, poking one with his finger. It was slimy. Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Like this, my dear boy,” he said before taking one, holding it to his lips and tipping the shell back. Crowley made a face as the angel chewed and swallowed, smiling the whole time. Shaking his head, Aziraphale got up and came around to Crowley’s side of the table. “Here.” _

_ Gently, he took Crowley’s hand and guided him through the entire process. For centuries to come, Crowley would think about how close the angel had been, how he could feel his warm breath on his cheeks, how Aziraphale had smiled at him when he’d managed to gag one down and pretended to like it.  _

He shook himself out of his memories as fast as he could. He couldn’t dwell any longer. It wasn’t healthy for him anymore. He had a kid to raise, anyway. 

He took his glass of wine and held it out. Reflexively, Aziraphale seemed to know what to do. He seized his apple juice and, carefully, clinked the glass against his father’s. They drank together, grinning at each other. 

“Happy birthday, angel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, the orangutan thing actually happened to me when I was like 8 XD. Really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned for the next chapter. I'm going to try and update every Monday from now, but I can't promise anything. 
> 
> Please remember to leave comments and kudos. Especially comments, they really keep me going lol xx


	7. Even Demons Have Their Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus fuck. 
> 
> Where to start? I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!! I wasn't planning on this impromptu hiatus, but Year 11 is mental. My GCSEs are about 2 months away (well, they're supposed to be) and of course school is crazy. However, my mother has a cough so according to BoJo's orders, I'm stuck inside in Self Isolation for a fortnight. No matter, maybe we'll get some more of this!! Again, I'm so sorry for the wait and I hope this chapter makes up for it!

Everybody has to reach the end of their tether, and for Crowley the end came at the start of December, during the third month of caring for the kid. 

He didn't even realise he had reached the end of said tether until the Makeup Incident. Before the Makeup Incident, Crowley was beginning to doubt that he could ever be angry with the kid. That had been very quickly dispelled, however. 

You see, over his six thousand years, Crowley had collected a lot of very expensive makeup. Rare lipsticks, limited edition foundations, thousands of pounds worth of blushers and eyeshadows and brushes. Crowley loved them all. He really did. 

He’d been watching Golden Girls at the time. Reruns, of course, but he’d missed it ever since it had finished in 1992. He’d left the kid in his own room with his books, and he’d assumed that it was fine. Only, the kid had been suspiciously quiet for nearly an hour… Nervous that something had happened to the kid, he decided to go and check on him. 

“Look, Papa, I’m playing makeup!” 

Simply put, Crowley had  _ blown  _ up. He’d shouted immediately, screaming at the kid about respecting property, and how there was stuff in there that was older than he was. He’d been so blinded by his own anger that he hadn’t realised that he’d been scaring Aziraphale until the kid had sniffled as his back hit the dresser. 

It was at that moment when he saw the fear in the young angel’s eyes, the fear of a darker power that he hadn’t seen in nearly four thousand years, that he knew he needed some time alone. 

Having no friends to speak of, Crowley was at a bit of a loss at first for where to send the kid for the day. He couldn’t just stick him in the playground, or in a soft play centre, and just leave him to it, could he? He’d get kidnapped or something. The demon had been pacing for almost an hour when he remembered kind old Mrs Garringston downstairs. Surely she wouldn’t mind having the boy? She seemed to like him well enough. Aziraphale was pretty okay with her, and given how quiet he had been for the past two hours he probably wouldn’t turn his nose up at going somewhere else for a day. 

"Hey, Az…?" he said tentatively during dinner, which thus far had been consumed in silence. The kid looked up from his food, his face morose. "How do you fancy going to Mrs Garringston's for the day tomorrow?" 

"Is it because you want to get rid of me?" Aziraphale asked with a sniff. 

"No!" Crowley said quickly. "No, of course not. I just thought you'd like… a change of scenery for a day." 

A weak argument, but apparently it was enough for Aziraphale. Giving his father a small smile, he nodded. 

"Thank you, Papa," he said before turning his attention back to his broccoli and cheddar soup*. 

*Crowley had been experimenting with Tasty videos, and he was very proud of his latest creation, even if it was a little too cheesy

The kid hadn't wanted a story that night. Crowley was hardly surprised, but that didn't mean he wasn't upset about it. After giving the kid a kiss on the forehead, he quietly retreated back to the living room. 

Was Mrs Garringston going to take the kid, he wondered? It wasn't like he'd asked her. She would. Wouldn't she? Crowley ran a hand through his hair as he stood redundant in the middle of the living room. Absent-mindedly, he bent down and started clearing up the mess of assorted paper, pens and crayons. 

Now he'd had some time to cool off, he'd realised just how stupid a thing the makeup was to yell about. It was only makeup, for Someone's sake! True, it was an extensive collection, and yes, it had all been very expensive, but money was nothing to him. He could (quite literally) make it out of thin air. His kid's happiness, however, was something he couldn't buy in a million years. 

He trudged over to the bin, and looked out onto the street. Christmas lights twinkled back at him from across the road, where a few families had got a little enthusiastic. Letting out a sigh, he let his mind wander towards Christmas. The kid would be utterly spoilt. Presents, perfect meal, lights, the lot. That Christmas tree wouldn't know what hit it. 

Crowley smiled. It was looking alright after all. 

888888

"Have you got your inhaler?" 

"Yes, Papa." 

"Water bottle?" 

"Yes, Papa." 

"Notebook and pencils in case you get bored?" 

"Yes, Papa." 

"Raincoat in case Mrs Garringston takes you out?" 

" _ Yes _ , Papa!" Aziraphale giggled. Crowley gave him a weak smile and zipped up the backpack he'd been surreptitiously checking, handing it to the kid. "What time are you picking me up?" he asked as he shouldered the backpack. 

"Seven tonight," the demon said, anxiously buttoning the kid's coat. "Mrs Garringston is going to give you your lunch and your dinner." At this, Crowley lowered his voice and leant forward. "Whatever she gives you, just eat it, but I'll give her money to get takeout so you don't have to suffer through the microwaveable egg-fried rice." 

Aziraphale nodded, giggling. Crowley grinned, shaking his head, and then took the kid's hand and led him out of the flat and down the stairs. 

He was a little hesitant to knock on Mrs Garringston's door. Contrary to what it seemed, he hadn't  _ actually  _ planned this with her. He knew the old woman well, however, and had a distinct feeling she would be alright with whatever bullshit excuse he pulled out of his arse. Looking down at the kid, he raised his fist and knocked. 

The door opened to reveal Mrs Garringston standing there. Despite the fact it was only nine in the morning, she was already fully dressed. Her hair was in rollers, though, and she looked a little jumped upon. Once she saw the two at her door, however, her face broke into a huge smile. 

"Good morning!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. "What can I do for you two handsome gentlemen?" 

"Morning, Mrs Garringston," Crowley said tiredly. 

"Good morning!" Aziraphale chirruped beside him. 

"I know this is a massive ask," the serpent began, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Mrs Garringston's expression became suddenly worried. "But could you possibly look after Aziraphale for the day? I just… I need-" 

He didn't have time to finish his sentence, because the old woman was nodding, reaching out towards the kid. 

"You don't even have to ask!" she gushed. 

"Are you sure?" Crowley said. Unconsciously, his grip on Aziraphale's hand tightened. "I've barely given you a reason." 

"You don't need a reason, dearie," Mrs Garringston said. "You have no family to speak of, I'm basically the little one's grandma." 

"Yeah," Crowley smiled. "Yeah, I suppose." 

Kneeling down, he gripped Aziraphale's shoulders. 

"You be good, yeah?" he said almost nervously. 

"Of course, Papa," the kid replied, flashing him a winning smile. The two shared a quick hug, and then Aziraphale bounded, happy as Larry, into Mrs Garringston's flat. 

Reaching into his pocket, Crowley pulled out his wallet. He took a twenty pound note out, and held it out to the old lady. 

"For food," he said gruffly. "I don't expect you to have to cook for him. I'm already asking too much of you." 

“Of course you’re not, dearie,” Mrs Garringston gasped. It was as if she was almost offended that Crowley thought he was being an inconvenience. 

"Well, that's… alright, then," Crowley said rather awkwardly. For a few more seconds, he stood there silently before turning on his heel, giving Mrs Garringston a small wave and heading back upstairs to his apartment. 

The moment his apartment door closed, Crowley's composure utterly collapsed. He grabbed his sunglasses and threw them into some dark corner of the room. Under his silk shirt, jet black scales popped up along his spine. The whites of his eyes were completely obscured by the glittering golden serpentine irises, and his legs seemed to have turned to jelly, the urge to transform being almost overwhelming. With a groan, Crowley dragged himself over to the liquor cabinet, unlocking it with a vague wave of his hand. He grabbed the first bottle he saw. It didn't matter what it was. Everything in that cabinet was potent enough to knock out a horse. 

The cap was unscrewed with teeth. No time to use fingers, slowly becoming webbed and practically unusable. The first gulp burned as it went down, but Crowley embraced the pain. 

He definitely deserved it, he thought. 

He hadn't got properly drunk like this since the burning bookshop incident. The serpent winced involuntarily. Colours seemed to swirl and pop around him, everything turning into fire and flame, the smell of ash and cinder and death all around…

Another gulp of alcohol took care of that. It occurred to Crowley, as he looked listlessly around his apartment, that he'd never actually bothered to look at what he was drinking. Not that it mattered. As long as it got him drunk enough to get through the day without having too many existential crises*, it was good enough for him. 

*The most existential crises Crowley had ever had in one day was one thousand, three hundred and twenty six, just after he found out about the Spanish Inquisition

Why was it him? Why was it always him who got the short end of the straw? It was all fine and dandy for Aziraphale. Well… kind of. But at least he couldn't remember the discorporation and the loss and the pain! Crowley could. He didn't think he'd ever forget it. He didn't think he ever  _ could.  _

Normally, Crowley tried to avoid nostalgia, unless it was to prove a point. In the early days, he found that when he looked back, he simply couldn't stop going back. And back. And even further back, until he was in the pre-Fall days. 

Crowley really,  _ really  _ didn't like thinking of the pre-Fall days. 

Today, though, it seemed there wasn't much else to think about. Taking a swig of alcohol, he let out a groan. Not for any particular reason, other than to articulate his mental anguish of course. Heaven seemed almost alien to think about now. He'd enjoyed it whilst he was there. Sort of. He'd just always been… bored. Unfulfilled. He'd always wanted to know more. 

"More" quickly transpired to be "Hell". 

For the first few days, he hadn't done much more than lie in the sulphurous pits, surrounded by fire and smoke and death. He'd cried. He'd cried a lot, actually. Demons of Hell didn't like to admit to it, especially not the "original" demons, but a lot of them cried during the first few days. Or months. 

After that, they'd sort of learned to get on with it. Once they'd discovered their animals, life became a bit easier. Transformations became a solace for Crowley, a signal to others to leave him alone. Very often it worked as well. At least, it did in the Old Days. 

He hated thinking about the Old Days, yes, but the more he thought about that the less he thought about Aziraphale, New or Old. When he thought about the New Aziraphale, he started worrying about doctor's appointments, school applications and whether or not they had enough vegetables in the fridge. When he thought about the Old Aziraphale, a deep, jarring ache in his chest would start up, his eyes would burn and he'd have to take at least half an hour to calm himself down. 

Damn. 

Furiously, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to ignore the way the alcohol sloshed over onto his skin. The cold helped him focus. On what he wasn't exactly sure. It helped a little though 

Which is why he proceeded to pour the rest of his bottle all over his head. 

Crowley gasped, the sudden shock of the cold air hitting his exposed face taking him aback. He screwed his eyes shut, embracing the burn. Of course the bottle immediately refilled itself. The serpent immediately took another gulp, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He let out a half-satisfied noise. 

At least he'd have enough alcohol to last him the day. 

888888

For Mrs Garringston, she hadn't had a more action-packed day for twenty years. 

She'd never had kids herself. Her and her husband had talked about it, of course, but then there had been the accident, and she'd never been able to bring herself to remarry. However, when she had moved into the apartment block and encountered the mysterious dark stranger with fiery red hair and hidden eyes in the hallway, she'd decided to take him under her wing. Really, Aziraphale was her honorary grandson. 

Aziraphale had wanted to go to the park at around 12-ish. Already exhausted with trying to keep up with his seemingly endless energy, she had agreed, and took him on the bus with her senior citizen's pass to Hyde Park. The kid had enjoyed the park immensely, running around and even hanging upside down from the monkeybars at one point. Mrs Garringston had chuckled, thinking quietly to herself that he must have got this from his father, and then gently told him to get down in case he fell down. 

They had lunch out. She was friendly with the manager of a Wetherspoons, and so they got twenty percent off their meals. Mrs Garringston had a senior gammon, egg and chips, and Aziraphale fish fingers and chips. Along with pudding, it had only come in at twenty quid. 

"I have some Super Noodles in the cupboard we can have for dinner," she whispered to the kid on the bus back. 

He'd giggled, and then put his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound. 

The rest of the afternoon had been quite quiet. Having expounded all of his energy in the park, Aziraphale had tried to draw and write, but eventually he'd crawled up onto the sofa next to her and fallen asleep to  _ Homes Under the Hammer _ . She'd smiled softly, and then set him down on her bed for a nap. 

Aziraphale had woken up at around 4 p.m. Apparently, he hadn't been in the mood for reading, or indeed for anything creative, and so they had mooched out on the sofa together, watching reruns of David-Tennant era Doctor Who. 

"He looks like Papa just with funny hair!" Aziraphale had giggled. Mrs Garringston had agreed wholeheartedly. 

Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying the premise of Doctor Who. At 6 p.m., he sat very daintily eating Super Noodles, laughing away at Captain Jack Harkness and jokes he didn't understand yet. 

As Mrs Garringston stood in the doorway of her kitchen waiting for her toast to be done, she was struck by the thought of how mature Aziraphale was for a three-year-old. Maybe it was growing up with a sophisticated name, or losing his mum at such a young age, but he seemed worldly wise in a way that many middle-aged people never were. She liked it, in a way. It reminded her of herself when she was younger. 

It wasn't long before she was looking at the clock and it was already 7 o'clock. A pang of sadness hit her, but she knew that she had to give him back to his father. She almost wanted to take him up, but she thought it was best to let Crowley pick him. 

Quickly, 7 p.m. slipped into 7:30 p.m., and then 8 p.m., Mrs Garringston getting more and more worried with each passing minute. At 8:15 p.m., she finally decided that she'd had enough. Handing Aziraphale a chocolate bar, she promised that she would be back soon, and left him happily watching Doctor Who with a huge smile on his face. 

She made sure to lock the door behind her. 

As she slowly climbed the stairs, she began to invent awful scenarios in her head. Was Crowley okay? Had he done a runner? Had something happened to him? Was he lying in a hospital somewhere, dead to the world? She really did need to put herself down as his emergency contact. 

The closer she got to his apartment, the louder the shouting and the crashing got. Biting her lip, she rearranged her cardigan and knocked on the door. 

The shouting didn't stop. Another crash came, much louder this time. That was the last of it. Mrs Garringston took matters into her own hands. Bending down, she grabbed the spare key from under the doormat and unlocked the door as quickly as she could. 

"Please, just put it back!!! Put it back to how it used to be!" 

Another crash. Mrs Garringston winced, taking another step towards the living room. 

"I don't  _ want  _ this anymore! I just want my partner back!" 

Ah. Suddenly it all made sense. She high-tailed it to the living room, not waiting to knock on the door before walking in. 

Crowley was alternating between slugging whiskey out of a bottle he was holding in one hand and throwing shot glasses at the wall with the other. Midway through another scream, he turned, and then froze mid-glug as he saw her. 

"Oh sweetie…" Mrs Garringston said. 

Crowley threw himself forward at her, unable to restrain himself with all the alcohol in his bloodstream. She took him up in her arms, letting him sob and cry into her shoulder. With a wary eye, she examined the room. At one side of the room, there was a pile of broken glass where Crowley had been throwing the shot glasses. She dreaded to think what harm that glass could have caused him or Aziraphale if she hadn't come up. 

“It’s okay to still be grieving,” she murmured consolingly in his ear. “She was the love of your life, the mother of your child!” 

“She* was my  _ universe _ ,” Crowley sobbed back. “She was everything to me and now she’s gone.” 

*Even in his drunken stupor, Crowley had the sense to switch the pronouns so as not to arouse suspicion. 

Leaning back, Mrs Garringston regarded him with a sympathetic eye. The demon looked pathetic. His hair was wild, his face as pale as a ghost’s, with tear tracks marring his normally unblemished cheeks. He was sniffing, not meeting her gaze. 

“I know, I know,” Mrs Garringston murmured as she reached forward and took the bottle from his hands. 

“How am I supposed to do this without her?” he said, eyes wide and begging. “”Aziraphale… he needs raising, and I’m not good enough.” He looked up, meeting her gaze for gaze. “I’m not good enough for him.” 

Before he could look down again, Mrs Garringston reached forward and grasped his chin, forcing him to look at her. 

“Now you listen here, Anthony J Crowley,” she said fiercely, so fiercely that Crowley stopped, nodding a little. “You are perfectly good enough for your son. He loves you to pieces!” Crowley smiled a little at that, going a little looser. Mrs Garringston gave him a small grin. “All day, he was chattering on about you. I don’t care what you say, but you are more than good enough for that little boy who's sitting down there watching Doctor Who.” 

Crowley nodded, but it was half-hearted. Sighing, Mrs Garringston let him go. As he wiped his eyes, she put the near-empty bottle on the table, reached into her pocket and pulled out a leaflet. 

“I think,” she started gently, “that a bereavement support group might be good for you.” Crowley snorted as he toed the pile of broken glass. Mrs Garringston pulled herself up to her full height* and squared her shoulders. “Don’t you huff at me, Mister, you know I’m right. This group did  _ wonders  _ for me when My Graham died. Do you remember My Graham? He might not have said anything but he loved you to bits, he really--” 

*Five foot two and a half

“Not to be rude,” Crowley interrupted. “But what’s your point? How does it help?” 

“It lets you get your feelings out in a healthy way,” she said pointedly. Crowley blushed and looked back down again. “I just… I can’t explain it, but I think it will be good for you.” She pressed the leaflet into his hands. “Read it over.” 

With that, she disappeared down the hallway. Crowley heard Aziraphale’s door open and shut, and then he heard the front door shut. 

Instantly, he sobered up, wincing as the alcohol sluggishly left his bloodstream. Waving his hand, the shot glasses choppily fixed themselves and the bottles refilled themselves. Collapsing onto a shark beanbag that was sat in the corner of the room, he read through the entire leaflet one, two, three, four times. It seemed like it was trying too hard, but if Mrs Garringston was recommending it that meant it was probably good. As he read it again, he noticed that there was a group just down the road… and it started in five minutes! 

Jumping up, he threw on his jacket and sprinted out of his apartment. He threw himself down the stairs, running out onto the street, pushing people out of his way. When he came to the crossroads, he looked around wildly, panting as he glanced down at the leaflet and then back up at the street signs. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the run-down community centre building. This was it! He looked down at his watch: three minutes. He took off down the road, lungs burning as he weaved between people, ran across the road. He reached the door just before it closed, slipping in through the small gap before it slammed shut with a  _ bang _ . 

“Anthony… Crowley,” he panted, voice hoarse, to the person on the door. He leant against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. “I’m new? Can I…?” 

“Yeah, come in,” the person said, smiling warmly. “There should be a spare seat somewhere. Just go in and sit down.” 

Crowley nodded, walking towards the room. When he got to the door, he stopped, taking a deep breath. Was he ready for this? Glancing back, he took a very shaky breath and went into the room. 

There were about thirty chairs set out in a circle in the middle of the room, most of them occupied. There were all sorts of different people sitting there, and of course they all turned to look at him. Raising his hand in greeting, he trudged to a chair, slumping down into it and not meeting anyone’s eye. 

The head of the group, a jolly-looking black woman with an impressive afro, stood up and cleared her throat. 

“Hello, everybody!” she said, beaming. “It’s really good to see everybody-- and I see that we have a new face today! Would you like to introduce yourself?” 

It took Crowley a moment, but he looked up, shocked. He cleared his throat, and stood up, standing awkwardly. He glanced at the woman. She smiled at him encouragingly. 

“Um, hi, I’m Anthony Crowley,” he said. “But I go by Crowley.” 

“Hello, Crowley,” everyone said. The sound echoed around the room. 

“If it’s not too hard, would you mind telling us a little about why you’re here?” the head woman said.

“Um, yeah, that’s fine,” Crowley replied, clearing his throat. “My wife… we’ve known each other forever.” He let himself chuckle a little. “Best friends for ages before we realised how much we loved each other.” His smile dropped here, and he buried his hands in his pockets. “We had a kid. Aziraphale Christopher Fell. He took her last name. There was an accident… a drunk driver…” 

He had to pause, looking to the floor and sniffing deeply, willing the tears to stay inside. 

“It’s okay,” someone said gently. Crowley flashed them a smile. 

“She saved Aziraphale’s life,” he said. Pulling out his phone, he brought up a picture of Aziraphale and showed them. Many  _ aww _ ’s went up around the room. “And I want to do the best for him but… it’s hard. Really hard. I’m on my own--no family to speak of on either side--and I want him to have the best life possible. And he’ll only have that if I get the proper help I need.” 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the woman said. 

As he looked round at the smiling faces that surrounded him, Crowley instinctively knew that she was right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING SOON: in another therapy session, Crowley reveals a little more about some of the not-so-good days he has with Aziraphale 
> 
> Please leave comments, they really keep me going!! 
> 
> Love to you all <3 Stay safe, wash your hands and try not to worry too much in these uncertain times :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!! Please don't forget to leave comments and kudos: I do my best to get back to all of you xx


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